Peculiar Institution
by Dreamwhisper
Summary: A/U Earth has been conquered, but the humans aren't completely pacified. The Tallest have a plan to fix this --- they hope....
1. Chapter One

Peculiar Institution  
  
  
Invader Zim and all related characters, trademarks and logos are copyright Viacom. All other original characters are mine.   
  
  
"...the victorious army slaughtering all who resist, making prisoners of the rest, looting by right of the sword, and thanking their god to the sound of cannon. All these are terrifying scourges which undermine all our belief in eternal justice and all the trust we have been taught to place in divine protection and human reason."  
- VNV Nation, _Chosen_  
  
  
They were herded into an auditorium. If she stared straight ahead at the people in front of her and didn't look around, or up, or to the side, the situation felt almost like a school assembly or an All-Plant Meeting. Everyone had that drained, blank aura of resignation hanging on them like soggy clothes.  
Someone sneezed. Quin made the mistake of turning her head to see whom, and caught full sight of one of --  
-- of….  
She squeezed her eyes shut and fought to keep from hyperventilating._ Not real, not real, not real. They don't exist, and this isn't happening._  
She shuffled along, eyes still closed, until she bumped into a wall of flesh, and rocked back on her heels, nearly falling. No one grabbed her or tried to help her. Only the close proximity of her fellow …attendees… kept her upright.  
The lights went out. Music blared, loud, martial, heavy on the percussion and somehow not quite right. Laser beams shot from corners and smoke billowed as a large disc descended from the ceiling and hovered barely fifteen feet above them. After a few minutes the music ended, the lasers stopped, the smoke faded away. The disc and its occupants were now visible. Quin's hands clenched into fists, even as part of her gibbered in disbelief.  
On the disc were two of … _ them._  
Very tall two. The tallest she'd seen yet, looming over the guards like giant animated Pixie stix. The one in red waved.  
"Welcome, human slaves of the Irken Empire! You have been gathered here as part of a very select group!"  
"You slept through our invasion," said the one in purple. "Talk about slackers!"  
"Well, you won't be doing _that_ anymore!" They broke into laughter.  
"Anyway," the red one went on at last, "to bring you up to speed, we've arranged a special broadcast of Earth's subjugation, just for you. And because it's such a crowd-pleaser, we'll replay the execution of Bill Gates."  
A moment's stunned silence, and then the auditorium erupted in cheers. The giant Pixie stix waved their hands, rather smugly. "Yes, yes, it was the least we, The Tallest, could do for you, our newest minions. Transmission, please!"  
A screen popped into existence behind them. The disc bobbed up. "I like balcony seats," Quin heard one say.  
The transmission began.  
Quin watched. She had to; her eyes refused to close, and she couldn't look away. Not that looking away or closing her eyes would have helped; the sound system was right from Dolby's wet dreams. Purple, amber and crimson starships flowed across the screen like all the B-movie invasions rolled into one. Cities -- London, Moscow, Washington, Cleveland, Beijing -- gone, countless more in ruins. Large chunks of continents obliterated. Staring, zombie-like people loaded into ships, steered into holding pens.  
"And now some local color!"  
The scene changed to the Metro Detroit area. She watched, stony-eyed, as Metro Airport evaporated. "Well, it always was over budget," the man next to her muttered. Comerica Park collapsed on itself, Ford Field reduced to rubble. Aliens posed for pictures outside the smoking husk of Somerset Mall. The cracked, battered grid of highways turned into landing strips for invader vehicles.  
The Giant Tire tossed into the air and used for laser practice.  
Something in Quin stirred at this, fracturing the numb disbelief that cushioned her and kept her from going stark raving bonkers.  
The Giant Tire had been a roadside monument to the local economy since before her birth. She had grown up less than half a mile from its large rubber roundness. She'd counted the arrows lodged into its treads, and even shot a few into them herself. It was from the Giant Tire she'd grabbed Lenny Bronkowski's crowbar in a fit of hysterical strength and smashed the backseat window of the locked car and saved the babies. She'd dropped her first hit of acid at the Giant Tire. In its shadow she discovered Led Zeppelin's _Houses of the Holy_ really was the ultimate make-out music. Broke up with her first boyfriend there. Her first girlfriend, too. Read her college acceptance letter in its smelly, late April solitude.  
And now… it was gone.  
Quin began to move through the crowd to one side of the auditorium. No one noticed her. She was good at not being noticed; it entailed equal parts of "I'm not important enough to bother with" and "I belong here, obviously." Not rushing was another important factor. Quin didn't rush.  
The auditorium was one of the newer, larger community theaters. The catwalks had been removed, and the stairs leading up to them, but one of the smaller, built-in ladders to the dim lights and circuit breaker boxes was still intact. Probably not considered important to bother with.  
It would be just about the right height, Quin thought. As long as they hadn't moved.  
She climbed the first few rungs slowly, facing the crowd. There were guards on either side of her, not three yards away. They didn't see her, their solid-colored red eyes glued to the transmission screen. She spun around and scurried up the rest of the way, expecting a bolt of something-or-other to nail her between the shoulder blades.  
It didn't happen.  
At the top of the ladder, Quin turned, staring into the air over the crowd. There. The disc was there, just where she'd thought, where she'd hoped. It hadn't moved.  
And neither had they.  
Had Quin paused to think -- had she been capable of thinking, at this point -- she would have realized the futility of her actions. But Quin wasn't thinking. The part of her brain that thought and planned and calculated odds of success was currently cowering in abject terror. The screaming primal _I'll kill you if it's the last thing I do_ part of her brain was running the show.  
The screaming primal part of Quin decided on the red one. Somehow it reminded her of her boss.  
Poised like a trapeze artist, Quin swung up, and out.  
And let go.  
She flew up, and out -- just enough -- and plummeted toward the disc. Toward the red one.   
The red one looked up suddenly, and ducked.  
Quin collided with the purple one, howling in pain and fury as they crashed to the disc. Her hands shot to its neck, fighting for a grip, as her knees dug into its side through its clothing. Its green skin didn't feel like skin, didn't feel like anything the thinking-Quin could have put a name to, but its purple eyes widened in heart-warming anthropomorphic panic and if she could just exert a little more pressure, a little more pressure, _just a little more PRESSURE _ ----  
Something grabbed her by nape of her neck. Quin spun in mid-air like a drunken piñata. The red one glowered down at her. She kicked it. It blinked at her. She kicked it again, higher up.   
Something else yanked her out of the red one's grip. The purple one glared at her through slitted eyes, antennae folded back. Its hand -- its claws -- encircled her throat.  
And pressed.  
The world went black.  
  


**  


  
"Well, it worked," said Purple.  
The Tallest had left Earth's surface as soon as their attacker was properly secured for transport. Once on the Massive and in their private conference room, the rulers of the Irken Empire and an ever-expanding portion of the universe turned their attention to the matter at hand.  
"Not as well as we'd hoped," Red grumbled. He drummed his claws on the table, scowling down at his untouched brain-freezy. "Only one. Initial reports said there'd be at least ten."  
"Initial reports can be wrong. That's why they're initial."  
"They shouldn't be wrong. Decommission that sector's Intelligence officers to janitorial duty on Dirt. That'll teach them."  
Purple nodded, calling up an electronic pad and making a few notes. He gestured, closed that screen and punched up another. "Maybe we shouldn't have included the Gates-human's execution," he said, peering at a slideshow of diagrams, graphics and screenshots. "It always makes them happy."  
"Yeah, I noticed that. Like we did them a favor."  
The Tallest looked at each other and laughed.  
"We'll drop the execution for the last of the orientations." Purple made another note, deleted one of the slideshow screens. "If they're not happy, maybe more of these 'freedom fighters' can be flushed into the open."  
"Mmn." Red sucked loudly on his brain-freezy. "Feh. Rebels. Filthy stinkbeasts are more trouble than they're worth. Remind me why we're bothering with this back-of-beyond dirtball planet."  
"Because in an amazingly lucky duel of one-upmanship, Zim and Tak _did_ conquer it."  
Red's antennae drooped slightly. "Oh. Right."  
The Irken Empire's success was not due to its numbers, its technology or its Armada. Other civilizations could and had matched it in one or more of those areas. What made the Empire different -- made it successful, made it superior -- was one simple philosophy.  
No waffling.  
Irkens might and did equivocate, rethink, reprioritize… in the interest of completing the job. Goals ended in success or failure, preferably the former if the Irkens involved wanted to avoid being catapulted into the nearest star. "Abandonment" wasn't in the lexicon, and neither was "changing one's mind."  
If an Invader conquered a planet, the Irken armada came in for the Organic Sweep. What purpose the world and its dominant species, assuming it survived, would serve was decided by the Tallest. Even if the world in question had been thought non-existent, and its conquering Invader an embarrassment and nuisance, procedure had to be followed. Always. The Tallest knew this, even if they didn't particularly like it. Anything else might result in a loss of face among the galaxies and star systems that were on Irk's to-do list. Or give some of the other, less complacent subjugated species ideas. Earth's outbreak of rebellion wasn't the only one the Empire had encountered, just the most recent.  
Red reached over to Purple's console and hit a sensor button. The screen on display went blank, grew larger and hovered in mid-air. The Tallest stared at it.  
"What an ugly species," Red muttered.  
"At least this one's not too short."   
"Like that matters!" Red propped his chin in his claw. "What is it, male or female?"  
"Female. I think." Purple sounded doubtful. "Hard to tell, really. I get them confused."  
"It went for you this time."  
Purple shot his co-ruler a look. "Because _you_ ducked."  
"You could have ducked. Did it say anything? 'Give me liberty or give me death'?"  
"No."  
"Ranting about the …" Red paused. "…the… big world organization … thingy and black helicopters?"  
"_United Nations_. Nope."  
"The bourgeoisie and the power of the proletariat?"  
"Wrongo."   
"Well, what did it say, then?" Red demanded in exasperation.  
"Nothing. Just screamed and made the usual futile attempt to kill me."  
"Quiet and determined. I can appreciate that in an assassin." Another suck on the brain-freezy. "So what do we do with it? Toss it out the airlock, or catapult it into the system's sun?"  
"I don't know, Red. Neither seems to work."  
Red choked on his brain-freezy. "What, are there "Irken Overlords Shot Me Into the Sun And I Survived!" stories hitting the underground tabloid screens? Have you got brain worms? These things can't even live through a simple laser in the eye!"  
"I'm saying that every time we punish these humans for their pathetic attempts at overthrowing us, we end up with more pathetic attempts at overthrowing us, not less."  
"So they're stupid." Red shrugged. "Eradicate the species. Problem solved."  
"We decided against that, remember? They're perfect for retail. We need them pacified, not extinct."  
"Oh. Right. An example, then. Something that'll chase thoughts of rebellion right out of their inferior little heads."   
"Exactly." Purple tapped his chin. "Slavery," he said thoughtfully.  
"Duh! They _are _slaves, Purple."  
"No. You don't get it. Make that —" The Tallest waved a claw at the large hovering screen. "—_ our_ slave."  
"Oh, no. Bad idea." Red paced, claws folded behind his back. "Why would serving us, the most superior beings of a superior race, be a punishment? What would we do with it? Slaves are work. You have to keep them fed, and cleaned up, and with this bunch, watered." He grimaced. "Then there's the irrational demands, the elaborate humiliations, the denigration and lording it over them just because…you … can…."  
Red looked at Purple. Purple looked at Red.  
They laughed.  
"Call back the highest ranking of those decommissioned Intelligence officers," Purple said at last. "Have him go through what's left of the native data and see what our little stinkbeast can do."  
  


***  


Quin dreamed of flying.  
Flying through the air at a rock concert, lasers crisscrossing above the crowd and smoke machines blasting away. But the music. The music wasn't right. Sure, it had a good bass and catchy rhythm, but it made her uneasy.  
She veered to her left, trying for altitude. She wanted to see the band. She hoped it wasn't the Backstreet Boys.  
She flew higher, but still couldn't see the stage. The lasers blinded her; the smoke choked her. Quin looked down at the audience. Pale emotionless faces looked back at her.  
The audience began to cheer, a tinny roar like a thousand toy trumpets gone mad. Suddenly afraid, Quin shot for the ceiling. She didn't want to see the crowd, or the stage, or the band.  
The ceiling melted into the night sky, a night sky she'd seen only on those rare trips up north, far away from the city. The moon was a forlorn ivory coin surrounded by malignant amber and crimson stars. The coppery stench of burnt ozone and blood clung to her like a lover's touch. She swallowed bile. Wrong, wrong, wrong! She could get away, if she could fly fast enough--   
An invisible net snared her in its grip, pulling her back and down.  
She screamed. She kicked and flailed, desperate to escape. A wasted effort. She could see the stage, the small lighted disc, and the people on it, not people but things, things that shouldn't exist. They had caught her, the two of them, with their red and purple eyes and their green alien faces made more horrible by their matching, too-human grins and their claws reaching for her and --  
Quin jolted awake and stared at her surroundings, panic-stricken.  
White room. Small. Empty, except for the bed-like platform on which she lay. Light shone down from small half-globes in the ceiling. No doors. No windows. No things looming over her. Quin took a shaky, deep breath. They hadn't killed her.  
Correction. They hadn't killed her_ yet_.  
The room swayed gently. Probably an after effect of her capture. Not having been choked unconscious before, she couldn't say for certain. She also felt like she'd been scrubbed with Comet. She gripped the edge of the table-bed and swung her legs over the side.   
Her clothes were different. The jeans resembled the ones she'd been wearing, but the faded areas, ragged hems and frayed knees were gone. The color was a rich, deep blue -- too rich. Quin rubbed her thigh. Stiff, brand new denim. She yanked off her t-shirt. The stains were gone, the red deepened to crimson, and off-the-cardboard-hanger new. She stripped to the skin. Her bra, her underwear, her socks, even her Adidas cross-trainers had been replaced.  
"A last wardrobe instead of a last meal?" she muttered as she dressed. Granted, laundry hadn't been a priority during those chaotic days before a scout-ship scooped her up, and neither had bathing. But why would aliens care?  
Movement in her peripheral vision. A portion of the left wall slid up. Two aliens peered at her. One gestured with a gun right out of a '50s pulp.  
Scenarios from dozens of bad late night sci-fi movies flitted past her mind's eye in a heartbeat. In each and everyone the unarmed and outnumbered heroes effortlessly defeated their well equipped and numerous captors. Quin hesitated.   
She wasn't that lucky.  
She wasn't that brave.   
She wasn't that dumb.   
With a little sigh, she stepped through the opening. The aliens shifted position, one behind her, and one in front. Neither spoke as they escorted her through a long series of interconnecting corridors, onto at least three different elevators and through more corridors. Some aliens watched as they passed; others ignored them. Quin kept her gaze lowered and tried not to think.  
She almost bumped into the guard in front of her when it stopped. The corridor ended in a door marked with the aliens' insignia: two ovals in the upper corners of a downward-pointing triangle. The guard waved its open hand before the ovals. The door opened, and the guard gestured her inside with its gun.  
Among the instinctual traits the human species maintained from its primal beginnings was a very simple, very useful one: fight or flight. Millennia of civilization, social training and lack of continuous physical threats to personal existence had weakened and diverted but not destroyed it. Until this point, Quin's actions had been dictated by what her rational mind perceived as the best course: cooperate, keep calm, don't make waves. Wait and see.  
Now instinct reared up with one bit of advice:  
_ Get the hell out of here._  
Quin dove to her left. Claws raked her shirt as she scrambled to her feet. She pivoted on her heel and her attacker, thrown off balance, collided with the wall. The other guard shouted something. Metallic, spider-like cables roped around her arms and legs and shoved her through the doorway.  
Quin fell on her hands and knees. She bounced upright and lunged at the rapidly closing door, hammering it with her fists.  
"Well, hi there, you sleepyhead you! We wondered when you were going to wake up!"  
Quin froze in mid-hammer and turned around.  
Some part of her had expected this. The aliens from the auditorium had obviously been important, and she had just as obviously attacked them. A confrontation was inevitable. Her death, probably quick and very painful, would now follow.   
What she hadn't expected was to confront her future executioners as they lounged on a couch and sucked on Slurpees.  
"You cost me five thousand monies," the red one said. It rose.  
Quin backed up against the wall. With their green skin, antennae, solid-colored eyes and lack of noses and ears, the alien guards and soldiers were disturbing enough. Now that she could see them clearly, unobscured by smoke and lasers and blind killing fury, these two went beyond disturbing and into terror-inducing.  
Their bodies were roughly humanoid: one head, two arms, two legs (or so she guessed; their robe-like clothing made it hard to say for certain about the legs) But the arms were spindly twigs, except for forearms that bulged out like a steroid addicts. They ended two long claws; no palms. The waist was impossibly long and thin, more like a skeletal thorax. The head jutted forward on an equally impossibly slender neck, giving them a somewhat hunchbacked appearance. From this angle she could see what appeared to be incongruous backpacks, white with colored spots that matched their eyes. They moved in a manner at once fluidly human and jarringly insect-like.   
_The original bug-eyed monsters. Where's a can of Raid when I need it?_ she thought wildly.  
"Oh, don't whine," the purple one snapped as it joined the other. "You'd've blown it on more lasers."  
"So? You'll blow it on smoke machines. That's so lame."  
"It is not!"  
"Is too. I'll prove it." The red one's head snapped around to Quin. "You! Earthenoid! You prefer lasers to smoke machines, right?"  
Quin looked at it.   
"Well?"  
Quin blinked.   
The red one glared at its fellow. "Purple, you cut its vocal cords again, didn't you?"  
"Nooo, I didn't," the purple one – Purple – sniffed. "I was very careful this time not to damage it. Unlike some people I could mention."  
"I didn't think their heads would pop off like that." It paused. "Kinda funny, actually."  
Their voices sounded male. Not just male, but like human men. In fact, if she closed her eyes, she would swear she was listening to her boss Roger. Not so much the voice per se, but the tone. Though with aliens, sounding male might not necessarily mean being male —  
"Ah, ah, ah! No going back to sleep!"  
Quin's eyes flew open. Their argument abandoned, the aliens loomed over her. A good three feet and more over her. She tried to shrink into the wall.  
"Eh, don't bother. The door won't open for you," the red one said cheerfully. "Your hearing's fine, we know that. I'm waiting for an answer."  
"Come on, speak for the Tallest, okay?" the purple one added.  
Quin glanced from one to the other. Answer. She had to answer the question. She knew she did. She rummaged past her state of absolute panic and remembered the dynamics of talking.  
"You're speaking English."  
The aliens looked at each other. "No," said the purple one, "you're speaking Irken."  
"But—"  
"You're speaking Irken," the red one repeated flatly. "All races of the universe speak Irken, proof of our superiority. Except for those fellow dirt-monkeys of yours, the…"it paused. "…the Frooks?"  
"The _French_," the purple one corrected. "They insisted we couldn't be real alien invaders because real alien invaders would speak French."  
"So we shot them into the sun," the red one finished. "That gets almost as many cheers as the execution of the Gates-person." They sniggered.  
Whatever belief in a sane, logical universe Quin had managed to cling to since waking up to find an invading starship in her apartment complex's parking lot evaporated like water on a summer sidewalk. She'd fallen down the rabbit hole. Or into a Kafka short story. Or maybe a Monty Python sketch.  
"Airlock," she heard herself say.  
The aliens blinked. "Hmm?"  
"Airlock," Quin repeated, amazed at how calm she sounded. "If you're going to kill me, I'd like to be thrown out an airlock."  
The aliens looked at each other, then at her. "Um, no," said the purple one. "We're not going to do that. Though technically we should since instant death is the automatic mandatory punishment for attacking a Tallest — "  
The question escaped before she could stop it. "What's a Tallest?"  
They fixed her with an unnerving stare. "The tallest Irken. _The_ Tallest. The Almighty Tallest," the red one snapped. "Undisputed rulers of the Irken Empire. _Us_."  
"Tallest Red, Tallest Purple," the purple one went on, waving at its companion, then itself. "Your new masters."  
"_My what_?"  
Red rolled his -- its -- eyes. "Duh! Hasn't the clue ship docked yet? 'Welcome, human slaves of the Irken Empire.' The remnants of your inferior species will find their niche as sales assistants, selling imported goods and snacks once your planet's conversion to a shopping mall is done."  
"Except for you," Purple said. "You're serving us personally."  
She had not only fallen into the rabbit hole, it'd been filled it with cement. Survival instinct and civilized mind had declared a truce and met for coffee." Serving you personally…?"  
"Catering to our every whim, jumping at our every command, bringing us snacks and drinks. You know, the usual stuff a slave does."  
"Though we do have some specific duties." Red ambled over to what appeared to be a computer console and did something to it Quin couldn't see. A monitor screen popped up. "Well? Don't just stand there, dirt-child, come see what the rest of your pathetically subjugated life is going to be like."  
Quin didn't want to. The fight -or- flight mechanism was telling her that having a wall at your back was A Good Thing; while it closed off one avenue of escape, it limited the angles of opportunity for attack. Her civilized mind was arguing for obeying. Red was drumming its claws, and Purple was reaching for her shoulder --  
Quin scurried to the table.   
"Enthusiasm, that's what we like to see!" Purple said in a yay-team voice as it followed. "To start, proper cleaning is a necessity. We expect you to bathe three times a day at least, four if we've really had you running."  
"Three times a _day_?" Quin burst out "Why?!"  
"You stink," Purple said bluntly. "Worse than Vorts. Zim always referred to your kind as 'filthy stinkbeasts." Its mouth twisted. "He was right about that, at least. Janitorial spent hours on you."  
The screen pivoted so Quin could see it. "We know all about you, thanks to your data system." On display was her driver's license. Her new driver's license. The driver's license still in her wallet, left behind when she dived out her window and into the dumpster. Her image disappeared in a flood of text and dates, too fast to read. "Upon review of your training, we've decided to make you a seamstress."   
Purple pushed a button, and the stream of data halted. Quin stared at the display screen. "That's… my freshman year report card. From high school."  
"Oh," said Purple. "Okay. According to what's left of you databases, most of your species' females are seamstresses." It cocked its head. "You are female, aren't you?"  
"I have a BA in Library Science, with an Art History minor," Quin said. "I've done database construction. I can code. If I cross my fingers and wish real hard, I even fumble my away around a car engine. And you want me to _sew_?  
"Yeppers," Red answered.  
"Why?"  
"It's obvious. Look at these scores!" Purple tapped the neat, ubiquitous row of Ds that marched behind the heading _Home Economics_. "Perfect."  
"Perfect? I almost failed! Stanton only passed me with a D because she felt sorry for me! Look, see those? Under _Advanced Placement English_? Those are As. As are good. Ds are bad. You get Ds in things you're not good at. I'm not good at sewing."  
The Tallest looked at the report card. "I don't like them," Purple said petulantly. "Ds are better than As."  
"They're not."  
"Yes, they are."  
"No, they're not! As are better than Ds. You can't change that just by saying so." Quin ticked off the first four letters of the alphabet on her fingers. "A, B, C, D. D comes after A, which is why As are better than Ds."  
Purple bent so its head was level with hers. "Ds are better than As because we're The Tallest and we say so."  
Quin stared at them. At that moment, the formica table where survival instinct and civilized mind met for coffee tipped over.  
"That," said Quin calmly, "has got to be the most ridiculous, asinine Orwellian doublespeak I have ever heard, and I've listened to Bill Crystal on NPR for years. What next, two plus two equals five?"  
Red snorted. "Two plus two equals four. Even your inferior species should have figured that out by now, foolish idiot stinkbeast dirt-child human."   
The epithets weren't obscene. There was in fact a schoolyard nastiness to them that in other circumstances she might have found absurdly funny. But the childish names masked a mentality of seeing everything and everyone else as an it rather than thou that infuriated Quin more than it frightened her.  
"You can call me anything you like, but my _name_ is Veronica!"  
"We know," Purple said. "We have your records, all of them… Veronica."  
"Veronica Rene Teresa Quin." Red grinned at her. "Ron. Ronnie. RT. Quin."  
"Quin," Purple repeated. "Yes, I think I prefer Quin."  
A finger of ice trickled down her spine. She tried not to shudder. Maybe there was something to the old folklore of not giving out your name….  
"Cold?" Red asked with mock-courtesy.  
So much for not shuddering. "Not really."  
"Or Blackjack," Purple went on. "What do you think, Red? Does she look like a Blackjack?"  
Stacy's nickname for her. Jason's, Rick's… "Don't you dare call me that," Quin snapped. "You have no right to call me that."  
The Tallest straightened to their full height, and looked at her.  
Quin's throat closed up. She could hear her blood pound, her skin felt electrified. There was nothing humorous, or childish, or human about The Tallest now. She was an idiot. She was dead. They were going to kill her and there was nothing she could do.  
"I think," Purple said at last, "that we should continue this later." It tilted Quin's chin, ignoring her instinctive flinch. "Our little person needs time to…adjust. Call the guards, Red."  
Quin heard the other Tallest speak as if from a distance. Her attention was fixed on Purple, who had coiled a lock of hair around one claw and was examining it curiously. "Does it naturally come in two colors like that?"  
"No."  
"Interesting." It tugged on her hair experimentally, then let go. "Is there anything you wish to say, Quin?"  
_Apologize. Apologize. Apologize, you damn stupid over-proud fool! _  
She couldn't. "No."  
"No, my Tallest," Purple corrected her, sighing. "You'll learn. Now where are those --? Oh, there they are. Take her to the last suite on 7th. _Yes_, 7th. Are you arguing with me, soldier?"  


***  


"I still want to throw her out an airlock."  
Purple rolled his eyes and closed the screen. There hadn't been much to see, anyway; after a rather timid examination of the suite, the human had curled up on the bed, hugging her knees, and stayed in that position since. The observation nanos' reports would be available in the morning.  
"Give it time, Red. I think she's going to be fun."  
Red scowled. "We didn't enslave her so she could be 'fun'!"  
"You're just mad because she's not afraid of you."  
"Oh, she's afraid of me, all right." Red plopped down in a chair and sucked on his tepid brain-freezy. "It's buried under all that fury. Why did I agree to be the Bad Tallest?"  
"Because you like it."  
"Oh. Right. She's not afraid of you, though. Not much."  
"That's why she's going to be fun."  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter Two

  
A prison cell, no matter how big, was still a prison cell.  
The suite was made up of four rooms: a main area that resembled nothing so much as a parlor; a bedroom with a queen-sized bed and a closet; a full bath; and a last room with two long tables, a metal cabinet and a chair. The furniture was human -- it might have come from any chain discount superstore. New, too.  
She'd never had new furniture, only newer.   
Her apartment would fit in here nearly twice over.  
Her legs were numb. Her hands hurt, her head ached and there was a crick in her neck. She opened her eyes, shut them again.   
Looking at her surroundings _hurt_. The Irken taste in color schemes ran to jewel-tones, all just a little too dark, a little too…off: amethyst, blood-ruby, amber. Interesting to look at for ten minutes, maybe, but not all the time. The architecture was just as bad: flowing, organic curves married to stark, mechanical angles and components from H.R. Giger's sketchbook.  
She rocked back and forth. Everything felt wrong. Everything was wrong. Her reality check had bounced and she didn't have an overdraft loan.  
They wanted her to _sew_.  
That didn't make sense. They didn't make sense. Everyone else, apparently, was slated for institutional servitude except her. Because she'd attacked them? Then why hadn't they killed her? Why bother sparing her -- why bother with this -- at all?  
It didn't make sense.  
It had to make sense. Planets weren't conquered and their inhabitants subjugated just because it was a Really Cool Idea.  
Her parents were years dead, but what had happened to Vicky, her twin sister, and Vicky's family? Her neighbor, Mrs. Constanzo, visiting her grandchildren in Ohio. Joanie and Virginia and DeWight and the rest of her coworkers. Pepper, left in the kennel for another day because she'd had to work a double-shift immediately after her vacation.  
All dead. If they were lucky.  
Her legs were cramping up. She stretched out, hissing in pain, and groped around for a pillow. She tucked it under her head, grimaced when she realized it was tag-side-up, and tore the damn piece of paper off. It wasn't like the Upholstery Police were going to come knocking in the middle of the night, after all. She opened her eyes and read the tag.  
Martha Stewart.  
Quin stared.  
"It's a good thing," she whispered at last. "It's a good thing. A good --"  
She laughed.  
She couldn't help it, couldn't control it, and couldn't stop it. She laughed until her sides ignited into red-hot agony and her throat scorched and her lungs pleaded for air. She laughed until the only sound she could make was a dying kitten's whimper, until hysteria bled into exhaustion and unconsciousness slipped over her like a shroud.  
  
_ "WAKE UP. WAKE UP. WAKE UP."_  
Quin groaned. The computerized voice reverberated through her bones. She didn't remember falling asleep, but she must have. "Five more minutes."  
_ "Request denied. Prepare for first hygiene session, bathing procedure."_  
She rubbed her eyes. Damn voice came from all around. Bathing procedure. Bath. "Don't want a bath," she muttered.  
_ "Objection irrelevant. Hygiene session mandatory." A pause. "Sixty seconds before restraints are used."_  
Shit. Quin rolled off the bed. Her muscles felt like rubber.  
Fortunately the bathroom was a short stumbling distance away. Quin leaned on the faux-marble vanity/sink; pale sea green and pink, it clashed hideously with the amethyst walls. She avoided looking in the mirror as she undressed. Mirrors and mornings didn't mix. The commode was a commode, the tub larger than she remembered from last night. No taps, just a series of buttons above the wall; two depressed by themselves and blue-greenish gel flowed in from jets in the wall. Quin poked it with a finger. Not water. Thicker than shower gel.  
"What is this?" she demanded. "Where's the water?"  
_ "Cleaning agent. Access to water has not been granted."_  
"Not been granted -- what the hell?"  
_ "Repetitive statement ignored. Question irrelevant. Commence with hygiene procedure."_  
Remembering the comment about restraints, Quin got into the tub. The gel stuff flowed around her. It felt like sitting in warm beads. A hook holding a washcloth popped out of the wall. She rubbed the gel into the cloth (resolutely ignoring the Martha Stewart tag) and scrubbed her face.  
She stopped.  
The gel didn't have a scent. It didn't even smell like soap. It didn't smell like anything.  
Nothing in this room, she realized suddenly, had a scent here.   
This was a spaceship. Advanced superior species or not, there should have been chemical smells from the technology, from the food, from the paint, from the aliens living here at the very least -- _something_. Had there been, in the halls and in that chamber with the Tallest? She couldn't remember.  
But here…nothing.  
A sentence from an old college textbook sprang to mind: _Test subject contained in sterile environment._  
They'd said slavery. But what if --  
Don't think. Don't speculate. Deal with what comes as it comes.  
"Towel," she said as she scrambled out of the tub minutes later. Her clothes were gone; she couldn't even use her shirt. "I need a damn towel!"  
_"Gel has self-drying component. Towel not required."_  
"No, it doesn't," she snarled. "And what about my clothes? I want clean underwear."  
There was silence. Quin stood there, dripping wet, and wrung her hair out into the sink. A washcloth, but no towels. How bloody _stupid_!  
_ "Attire is in sleeping chamber. Request for towels being processed. Expect reply in forty-eight to seventy-two hours."_  
Quin paused in mid-twist and dropped her head into her hands. "Do I dare ask for toothpaste?"  
_"Oral hygiene supplies in service cabinet."_  
"Gee, thanks."  
_ "Gratitude is acknowledged."_  
Quin flipped her middle finger up at the ceiling and stomped into the bedroom.  
She dried off as much as possible with a pillowcase; she considered the sheet or the bedspread, but there were no guarantees anything would be replaced. She dressed and combed out her hair as best she could with her fingers. "All right," she said, stamping into the new cross-trainers, "I've bathed. Now what?"  
_"Meal delivery underway. Report to main chamber."_  
"I'm not —" She was hungry. Her last food had been the bread and juice the night before the "orientation." More than hungry, though, she was thirsty.   
As she walked into the first room the door slid open, and a gray-uniformed Irken scurried in, dropped a covered tray on the nearest table and shot out again. It didn't look at her.  
Quin lifted the tray's lid. A brownish square and lumpy yellow-orange sauce squatted on a plate, framed by a plastic knife and fork. The smell of scalded milk hit her like a smack in the face.   
"What the hell is this?"  
_"Heat-processed water-dweller with spoiled dairy enzymes and wheat flour product."_  
It took Quin a moment to retranslate. "Baked fish and macaroni and cheese?"  
_ "Affirmative."_  
"For breakfast!?"  
_"Affirmative."_  
"I want something else! Anything else!"  
_"Request denied. Take it."_  
"I'll leave it!"  
_"'Leaving it' will trigger force-feeding procedures."_  
Quin dragged over a chair and slammed down in it. She slashed the fish into chunks and speared one on the fork. It tasted like slightly fishy burnt cardboard. The macaroni and cheese followed, but barely: she kept the greasy mess from coming back up by sheer willpower.  
"Isn't there supposed to be juice?" she asked between bites. Her throat felt coated in sand.   
_ "Negative."_  
"Milk? Water? Coffee?"  
_"Negative."_  
"Why?!"  
_ "Question irrelevant."_  
Quin slumped in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. "Can I at least have some ketchup?"  
Silence. Apparently she'd stumped her 'watcher'. Again. _"Ketchup not in files."_ Another pause, then, _"Classified as vegetable?"_  
God damn you, Ronald Reagan. "Yes."  
_"Request denied. Access to vegetables has not been granted."_  
"I'm done."  
_ "Food still present."_  
"Observation irrelevant." She shoved the plate away. "I need to brush my teeth."  
What came out of the bathroom sink's faucet was a very runny version of the cleaning gel. Combined with the toothpaste, it gave Quin the sensation of rinsing with hand sanitizer. Grimacing, she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, and her hand on her jeans, and made the mistake of looking into the mirror.  
She didn't look any different. A bit thinner, a bit paler. Same purple-streaked curly black hair, same gray eyes. She might be getting the game face on to head out to the warehouse and confront the masses of reports and deliveries and shipments, not living through the end of the world.  
She gripped the edge of the vanity and stared at the sink. No. She couldn't lose it. Not yet. Not now. Once she got an explanation, then she'd lose it.  
_ "Return to the main chamber."_  
The door was open and two guards were waiting for her. The same ones? Impossible to tell; their black uniforms included shields that covered the lower part of their faces. Not that the shields would have made a difference. Aside from the Tallest, Irkens all looked alike.  
The trip to the audience chamber was considerably shorter, if in fact they were taking her to the same place. The guard opened the insignia-set door and Quin went inside.  
It was the same place, so far as she could tell, with only the couch missing. The Tallest stood at the same computer table, obviously expecting her.  
"Well, here's our little person again!" said Purple cheerfully. "Feeling better? Not so touchy, hmm?"  
"Umm… yes." She wasn't terrified. Scared, yes. Wary, yes. Terrified, no. Being terrified wouldn't help her learn what was going on. "But thirsty."  
"Really?" Red glided over to her -- literally glided, nearly a foot off the floor. Quin studied the hem of Red's robe curiously, then met the Tallest's gaze. "That can be fixed, _after_ we get some things straightened out."  
"Oh, come on, Red." Purple trailed after its co-ruler. "She's not panicking, she's being polite, she just bathed…and her hair's really neat-looking!"  
Red snorted. "You're just saying that because it's got purple in it."  
"So? It's shiny and soft." Purple patted her gently on the head. "I li --  
Purple screamed and reeled back, clutching its claws to its chest.  
"What did you do to him?" Red pounced on Quin. Huge metallic spider-like legs shot over and around it from its back, pinning her against the wall. "Filthy little stinkbeast, tell me!"  
"N-nothing! I-I-d-don't know!"  
_"She's wet!"_ Purple bawled. _"It hurts!"_  
"Wet?" Red turned to Purple, then back to Quin. "How? The gel's self-drying!"  
"Not on me!"  
"Computer, get Medical in here immediately," Red barked. "Tallest Purple's been injured. Send in Security while you're at it, too" It glared at Quin. "Then why didn't you use the towels?" the Tallest asked in a tight, too-calm voice.  
"There weren't any! I had to use a pillow case!"  
"They gave you a washcloth, didn't they?"  
"Yes! But no towels! And when I asked, I was told it'd take two to three days!"  
"Two to three days for _towels_ ? That's stupid!"  
"No kidding!"  
Ruby eyes bored into hers. Quin couldn't have looked away if she wanted to, and some instinct told her looking away right now would be a very, very bad thing. "You," Red said at last, gently tapping the hollow of her throat with the tip of a spider leg, "had better be telling the truth." It glanced up as a dozen Irkens swarmed into the room. "See to the Tallest. Get the Communications head officer and Janitorial up here _now_; the rest of you secure the room. Oh, and will someone call down to Housekeeping for a towel?"   
"I think everyone realizes something went wrong," Purple said a short time later. The medical staff was gone, as were most of the guards except for the few standing watch over two very apprehensive department chiefs. The Tallest held up its bandaged claws. "Very wrong. We're going to find out what."  
Quin sank lower in her chair. The Tallest seemed to have forgotten her; even the guards no longer tracked her every little motion with their guns. She had expected to be returned to her cell as soon as possible. Instead, Red dropped a towel over her head and told her to sit down, keep quiet, and dry her hair. After a few minutes' battle she declared defeat and wrapped her mysteriously Tallest-damaging mane in a turban.   
"The hospitality suite on 7th was fitted with the sterilized cleaning gel, wasn't it?" Red asked. One of the department chiefs nodded. "Yes, my Tallest."  
"And the human used it, correct?"  
"Yes, my Tallest."  
"Then why was she damp, Commander Velk?" Purple interjected. "With _water_?"  
Velk's antennae collapsed. "I… I don't know, sir!"  
"It's your job to know. Didn't you realize the self-drying agent would interact with human body chemistry and leave water residue from _cleaning her up the first time_?"   
Quin raised an eyebrow. Water? She'd burned Purple, or whatever she'd done to Purple, with water?  
The smaller Irken's antennae writhed. "We -- we didn't use the sterilized gel the first time… sir…"  
Purple's eyes narrowed. "Why not?"  
"It happened on Earth, sir. After her capture. We didn't have that particular gel on hand…we made do with Earthenoid cleaning supplies. Different ones! All kinds! That's why it took so long!"   
"I see," Purple said at last. It turned to the other department head. "Commander Winslo, the human claims she received a washcloth but no towels. Is this true?"  
"Yes, my Tallest."  
"She also claims she requested towels, and was told it would take two to three days. Is this true?"  
"Yes, my Tallest."  
"Did the human say why she wanted the towels, Commander?"  
"Yes, my Tallest. She claimed the gel didn't work on her."  
"I see. Did you check with Janitorial about this?"  
"No, my Tallest." Winslo paused. "Any irregularities in the human's processing were supposed to be logged in the reports. Nothing was logged."  
"Uh-huh," Purple said. "Escort them to the nearest airlock."  
"My Tallest, no!" Commander Velk begged as the guards dragged them away. "It was a mistake," Winslo added, "just one mistake—!"  
"And you're paying for it," Purple snapped. "You should have tried harder!"  
The door closed, silencing the doomed Irkens' pleas.   
Red rubbed its forehead. "Incompetents. Some days I want to space them all."  
Purple sighed. "Me, too. Have her guards arrested and executed as well."  
Her guards? What had they to do with this? Quin surprised herself by asking, "Aren't you overreacting?"  
Red swiveled around. "Didn't I tell you to be quiet?"   
"What's that thing on your head?" Purple asked.  
"A towel turban."  
Red glided over to her. "I thought I told you to be quiet!"  
"She can't be quiet if she's going to answer me, Red, and you know it," Purple admonished. It followed Red. "Sit up straight. Will this… turban thing dry you faster?"  
"It helps. Hair can take hours." In for a penny, in for a pound. "Why are you punishing the guards who brought me here? They didn't know better."  
"They were assigned to you before. You looked different today. They should have noticed."  
"But if they'd never seen wet hair, why would they? Maybe they thought, I don't know, it's just how humans look when they first wake up? If I'd known water hurts you, I would have—"   
"You would have what?" Purple demanded.  
What would she have done? Told the guards to come back later? Used it against them somehow, try to escape? Waited and rushed the Tallest in a fit of daring and stupidity? "… I don't know."  
"Points for honesty, little stinkbeast ours." Red crossed its arms. "Not that it'll do you any good, but it's appreciated nonetheless. You know our weakness to water, we know yours. Yours is bigger."  
The smugness in Red's voice irritated her. "What weakness?"  
"Quin," Purple said. "Are you still thirsty?"  
As if on cue, Quin swallowed. Thirsty? She was parched. She nodded.  
"How long can humans live without water?"  
This didn't bode well. "…three days."  
"When was the last time you had water? Had any fluids at all?"  
"The night before the orientation."   
Red grinned. "And how long ago was _that_?"  
Damn you, damn you, damn you. Quin leaned forward. "I don't know. Care to fill me in?"  
Purple sighed in exasperation. Metal spider legs identical to Red's slipped out of its backpack and picked Quin up from her chair with surprising gentleness. "Red, that's enough. She was doing fine earlier. Let's not have a repeat of last night." The spider legs set her down between the Tallest; one removed the towel and draped it over the chair. The spider legs retracted into its pack "Quin, you're fairly smart for a specimen of an inferior race. I'm sure you realize snapping at your superiors is counter-productive." Purple frowned. "Um, your hair's still wet."  
"Like I said earlier. It'll take hours to dry naturally."  
Purple blinked. "You can dry it unnaturally?"  
"With a hair dryer."  
"Which is?"  
"An electrical appliance that makes and dispenses hot air."  
"You'll have one. By your second bath. You will use it all the time. If it breaks, inform Housekeeping immediately. Understand?"  
Quin nodded.  
Purple smiled. "Good." Its smile turned a little wistful. "Your hair looks really neat like this."  
Gagging noises came from Red's direction. "Is the Irken master-human slave lovefest over now?"  
Purple glared at it. "Oh, ha-ha." It tilted its head at the computer table. "Let's pick up where we left off before _someone_ lost her temper, hmm?"  
Its good claws skimmed the controls. A screen rose up and pivoted so Quin could see. "Now, mornings are usually pretty busy — meetings with advisors, Operation Impending Doom II leaders and especially now the Organic Sweep officers and Planetary Reconfiguration architects — so we'll probably call for you, oh, during lunch. Does that sound about right to you, Red?"  
"Works for me. What about after?"  
"Hmm." Purple eyed her thoughtfully. "I don't know about. She's not fully trained yet —"  
"— She's not trained at all, Purple. Hey, can we get some brain-freezies in here?"  
The Tallest waved its bandaged claws dismissively. "That won't be a problem. Though she's just a teensy bit nervous around us, I've noticed. I don't think she's ready for Happy Hour."  
"So leave out Happy Hour. Have her run her … foot cover thingies off during the Invader reports."  
"You mean _shoes_?" Purple broke off as a small hovering tray dropped down from the ceiling with two glasses of bright green and blue liquid. Quin watched Purple pass the green one to Red and keep the blue one for itself. The tray shot back into the ceiling. "I dunno, Red, that's kind of cruel."  
"Eh, the Invaders will live." Red sucked on its brain-freezy. Quin swallowed. "We'll have to send her back after that if she's to get any sewing done. Can't forget the baths, either. What are you looking at?"  
Quin started. That last was directed at her. She shifted her attention from the drink in Red's hand to its face. "Nothing."  
"Human, you're a lousy liar."  
"And you're blind," Purple said, exasperated. It tapped a button. "The brain-freezies! You're still thirsty, aren't you?"  
"Yes, actually." Her voice was hoarse.   
"Not a problem." Another tray dropped from the ceiling carrying a small pitcher and a glass. Quin swallowed again, her throat tight and desert-dry.  
The pitcher was filled with water.  
"Cold, too," Purple said as Red topped off the glass and set it down.  
Never in her life, not even when she'd been hospitalized for dehydration during the WTO protests, had she wanted water so badly. Quin reached for the glass.  
Red slid it just beyond her reach. "Ah, ah, ah! What's the magic word?"  
"Please."  
"Please what?"  
Quin took a deep breath. "Please… Tallest."  
"Not quite," Purple said, rubbing its chin. "There's a possessive pronoun missing."  
Quin's face grew hot. Say it, a tiny, craven voice urged in the back of her mind. Say it. It's just a word. It doesn't mean anything.  
It did mean something. Quite a bit.   
The Tallest watched her expectantly. Quin folded her hands in her lap. She couldn't hold out forever, but if she could get _them_ to think so….  
Minutes passed. Red's smirk melted into a scowl. Purple sighed and poured the water back into the pitcher. "Someone's being too stubborn and proud for her own good."  
"Please… my Tallest," Quin said in an even, expressionless voice.  
"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?"  
"I don't know." Red eyed her suspiciously. "It's lacking in the sincerity department."  
"It's a start." Purple refilled the glass. "Don't drink it too fast, mind."  
Quin gulped, then took a couple smaller sips. The water was ice cold and almost painful to swallow. It tasted wonderful. She could breathe again.  
She set the glass down on the table, keeping her hands around it. "Thank you, Tallest Purple."  
Red's eyes were ruby slits. Purple blinked. "You're welcome." It topped off her water, continuing, "Sixty-four ounces a day. One gallon. That's how much you humans need, minimum, am I right? Be a good girl — you are female, aren't you? I've been assuming you are, but you didn't answer me last time." The Irken's tone was slightly accusing.  
"Yes." She mentally crossed her fingers and plunged ahead; it'd be one less mystery. "Are you?"  
"Am I what?"  
"Female."  
"No, I'm not," Purple said, antennae flaring back, then upright again. "Neither is Red. Couldn't you _tell_ ?"  
"…not really…."   
"Well, now you know," Red told her.   
"As I was saying …" Purple tapped the pitcher with a claw, making it ring like crystal. "Be good, and you get your water. Be bad, and you don't. Simple, hmm?"  
Quin nodded. Not speaking was…safer … at the moment.  
"That's settled, then. We'll send you back so you can get started."  
"With what?"  
"We gave you a room to work in, worm-baby," Red said. "The last one."  
"It's empty. There's nothing in it but furniture."  
The Tallest looked at each other. Purple groaned. "Fine," Red muttered. He cleared the screen. "What do you need?"  
"Sewing machine," Quin said. "Needles. Material. Thread. Bobbins. Oh, god — it's been twenty years since I did this." She rubbed her temple. "Scissors, marking pens, straight pins, measuring tape, your measurements…"  
"Are you implying something, human?" Purple asked, his tone disbelieving. "We've been Measured. We _are_ the Tallest."   
Quin gestured helplessly. "Not for that, for… for making stuff. Height, arms, waist, shoulders, legs…do you have legs?"  
"Of course we have legs," Red snapped. "We use the hover platforms because they're cool."  
"Okay! I didn't know!"  
"Anything else?" Purple asked.  
"What do you want me to make?"  
The Tallest looked at each other. "I dunno…handkerchiefs, maybe?" Red suggested.  
"We don't have noses, brainiac!"  
"How about bibs?"  
"How about you picking up some manners, Red?"  
"I don't hear _you_ suggesting anything!"  
"Robes," Purple said. "Make us robes. You can use one of Red's as a model."  
"One of mine?! Why one of mine?"  
"Because you came up with the dumb ideas, that's why!"  
It was like watching two frat boys argue over who had to make the beer run at the party, and as thought-out. Quin bit her thumbnail. Maybe that comparison wasn't so far off.   
"Can I say something?"  
The Tallest stopped arguing. Red shrugged. "You already did, but sure, go ahead."  
She took a deep breath, and summoned up her Courtesy Desk voice.   
"I'm honored by the attention you've shown me."  
"As you should be," said Purple  
"It's more than I deserve."  
"No argument there," said Red.  
"I apologize for attacking you. I was…" Outraged, livid, pushed beyond the limits of rational thought by an overwhelming urge to tear you limb from limb. "…a little miffed."  
"Apology accepted," Purple said.  
"Yeah, " Red echoed. "Understandable."  
"Then…" Go big or go home. "…would you please put me in with the rest of the humans? Wherever they are?"  
The Tallest looked at her. Their expressions were hard to read, but she would swear they were surprised. "Why?" Red asked.  
"Because they're my people," Quin said. "You're both very… advanced ... and all, but…" Quin's voice trailed off.   
"No," Red said.   
"But why are you doing this?" Quin protested. "I can't do what you want. I can't sew. There was this woman from Missouri, Chris something --"  
"This Chris person isn't our slave, you are," Purple said.  
"-- she did great work on the Renfest circuit, she could make you robes, bibs, you name it -- but I can't!"  
"We have your training files. You'll do fine"  
"I failed!"  
"Not by our standards, which are superior to yours."  
Quin jumped up from her chair. "Dammit, will you _listen to me_?"   
Like the last time, she didn't see it happen. A subtle shift in posture and stance, and instead of frat boys she faced beings whose every move and gesture evoked paralyzing, primal fear.   
Purple floated toward her, frowning, antennae dipped down. "This is not helpful, Quin. We have listened to you."   
"Then —"  
"Veronica. _That. Is. Enough._ " Purple held his good claw to her lips. "Not another word, or you'll make us angry. You don't want that.  
"Now. As I said, we have listened to you. We know your arguments. They're irrelevant. Our decision is final. As the most superior beings of a superior species, our reasons are beyond your comprehension. Suffice it to say we won't change our minds. Do you understand?"  
Slowly, Quin nodded, staring at the floor. She didn't trust herself to look at them.  
"Say it."  
"I understand."  
Purple raised her head. "I understand, _my Tallest_."  
Meeting his eyes — and keeping her mouth shut — took all the control Quin had.  
Purple sighed, rubbing his forehead with his bandaged claws. Red snorted. "You know, human, I don't know if you're incredibly brave or incredibly stupid." He sounded almost admiring.  
"More like incredibly stubborn," Purple countered dryly. "Red, I think there's something our little person needs to see."   
They left the audience chamber and headed down the corridor, the Tallest on either side. The guards outside fell in step as they passed; Purple waved them away. "No, no. We'll be fine. We're not going that far."  
Purple was true to his word. Before long, the Tallest halted in front of another door, this one set with what appeared to be a blank, oversized keypad. Red ran a claw across it, and the door slid open.  
The opposite wall immediately caught Quin's attention. Clear from floor to ceiling, it displayed a panoramic view of space. "This is an observation deck," Purple said, unnecessarily. He floated to the window. "Come look."  
Quin obeyed. Nothing her captors wanted to show her would be for her benefit, but she was fascinated despite herself. She had been to Cape Canaveral and the local observatory, had seen NASA's video shots and pictures online. They were nothing compared to this. Blackness as far as she could see marred only by the shining ivory of the moon and the gem-bright pinpoints of distant stars.  
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Purple asked  
"Yes," Quin breathed.  
"It gets better." Red came up behind her. "Computer, lights off. Left wall."  
Without a sound, the left wall became transparent. Quin stared.  
The blackness was filled with spaceships. Dozens, hundreds, maneuvering in groups or simply hovering. Slowly, some broke free from formation and crossed into the main observation window's view. Not human ships — not even the most paranoid, whacked-out government conspiracy theorist would have come up with these crimson and amber monstrosities. Quin whirled around.  
"Computer, right wall."  
"No!" She turned for the door. A set of claws — Red's or Purple's she couldn't tell — seized her wrist.   
The right wall went transparent. More and more ships, too many to count, for as far as she could see. The Tallest gazed at the assembled fleet with obvious self-satisfaction. "Our armada," Purple said proudly. "Isn't it wonderful?"  
"Earth is behind you, if you want to look." Red dropped a comradely arm across her shoulders. She tried twisting out of his grasp and his claws dug into her upper arm. "You're on the mothership of the Irken Empire, the Massive. Home away from Irk, for us."  
"For you, too, Quin," Purple added. "You're the only one of your kind on board the Massive, on any Irken vessel. Our loyal subjects and our ships surround you. Do you understand?"  
Quin stared out the main viewing window, hands clenched into fists so tight her nails cut her palms. Despair and rage and helplessness threatened to overwhelm her. With all the technology and weaponry at its disposal, Earth had never had a chance.  
Alone and isolated, neither did she.  
"Quin? I'm waiting for your answer."  
"Yes. I understand you perfectly."  
Red groaned and threw his claws in the air. "Oh, geez, let's not go through this again! Purple, there's a perfectly good airlock not far from here—"   
"Red, stop it. Don't play dumb, Quin. You know what's needed." He crossed his arms. "Or can you live without water now?"  
"I understand you perfectly, my Tallest."  
"See? Soon we won't need all this prodding and threats." Purple smiled, and tapped Quin on the nose. "It's only a matter of time."  
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 


	3. Chapter Three

  
_ "Shit!"_  
Quin raised the sewing machine's needle and pulled the thread out of the ruby cloth. This seam was almost done, and she'd be damned if she gave the all-knowing Almighty Pain-in-the-ass Tallest Red an excuse to order her to rip it out again. Like he had the last three times.  
Purple had given the thumbs-down to the three before that.  
"They're taking turns. Bastards." Quin checked the bobbin. It held enough thread to finish, if she didn't make more mistakes. This sewing machine was considerably newer than the ones in her Home Economics class, but that didn't seem to matter. The fabric had a life of its own, sliding all over the plate, and both bobbin and needle never failed to foul up at least once. The thing had even come with an instruction manual and a beginner's how-to guide. For all the good they did.   
Still, she wasn't quite as god-awful as she remembered from high school. With as much as she'd been forced to do, some improvement was inevitable.   
Sighing, she realigned the cloth, lowered the needle, and began again. The world narrowed to the interplay of fabric and thread. Less than a foot. Not that much, not that long, five minutes at most…  
…if she could keep track of minutes.  
Quin gritted her teeth. No. Not now. She had a regimen, and she was keeping to it.  
Before too long it was done. She examined her work. Every stitch was straight, the knot tied off neatly; nothing for either Tallest to complain about now. "Halle-fucking-lujah," Quin muttered. And well before it was time for her next shift.  
Time.  
Quin draped the half-sewn robe on the dress dummy and straightened up her work area, trying to ignore the tightness in her chest. When everything was in its proper place, she tapped the control pad to turn off the lights and padded into the bathroom. After washing up and brushing her teeth, she retreated to the bedroom. She undressed, hung up her clothes in the closet, set her shoes underneath and climbed into bed. A touch of the control pad to her left darkened the room. Quin folded her arms beneath her head and stared at the ceiling.  
Time.  
She missed counting its passage, labeling it into minutes and hours and days. She didn't know how much time had passed since her capture. When asked, the Tallest flatly refused to tell. Her cell didn't have a clock. She thought at first her bath schedule could serve as an alarm clock of sorts: one every eight hours, sometimes every six. That idea had been overly optimistic. The Tallest ordered "hygiene procedures" at whim, more than once waking her from a sound sleep.  
She might have been here a week… no, longer. It had to be longer.   
Two weeks? Three? A month?  
She didn't know. She'd asked a guard this evening — call it evening, it made things easier. The guard had looked at her, and then almost imperceptibly shook its head.   
Her arm itched. No lotion tonight; she'd have to be sure to use it later. Water residue or not, the cleaning gel had done a number on her skin, drying it to the point of cracking and bleeding. After Red demanded to know why his brain-freezy was dripping blood, medicated lotion appeared with every other batch of towels. (She had plenty of towels now. No one wanted to repeat their late commander's fatal mistake.) Her water had been cut by a third the next day, for "not telling us of your inferior skin's sensitivity before."   
Her hair had suffered as well, to Purple's dismay. The Tallest liked her hair. Quin wasn't sure why. He'd drilled Quin on the ins and outs of hair care, then scribbled a list for Housekeeping and told them to take care of it. When she returned after the Invader reports, Paul Mitchell's entire product line and a full set of combs and brushes were waiting for her in the bathroom.  
The Tallest's' personalities distinguished them more than their coloring. Red was aggressive and open in his dislike and disdain for her. Purple was more thoughtful, more subtle. He was as demanding and frustrating and unreasonable as Red, but less obnoxious about it. Purple was… not okay, no one who ever claimed to own another person could be okay. Purple was…not Red.  
_ It's only a matter of time._  
The Tallest didn't insist on the honorific every time she spoke to them, but often enough. Refusing to use it until threatened was her only rebellion, small as it was. Red would go on about her stupidity and offer to give her a close inspection of an airlock. Purple appealed to her logic and intelligence until he grew tired of her "unreasonable" attitude and play the water card.   
But today….  
She'd been wiping down the snack tables the Tallest used for their lunch while going over reports. This session of Running Quin Ragged — or RQR as Red had shown her in their daily calendar — had been fairly mild; the number of reports meant that the rulers of the Irken Empire had other things to do besides concentrate on her.  
"Another pointless, idiotic rant from Zim!" Red crumpled the sheet in his claws and threw it over his shoulder. "Where'd it land?"  
"Ten points," Purple answered.   
"That brings my total to what, 190? Stinkyonfoota, let's see what you can do for your favorite Almighty Tallest." Red craned his neck around. "Thirty points! Whoohoo! I'm beating you, Purple."   
"Yeah, yeah. We'll see when I get my turn. Quin, I think that target's full. Thanks."  
"I'll be right there, my Tal-"  
Her mouth snapped shut. They hadn't heard, please God, they hadn't heard —  
Red snickered.  
"Quin, did you say something?" Purple asked.   
"I said I'd be right there." She gave the table she was cleaning a last swipe and tossed the rag into the cleaning caddy. She walked behind the Tallest to the dartboard-like pattern scrawled on the floor; kneeling, she scooped up discarded reports into a nearby trashcan.  
"I think you said more than that." Red spun around in his chair. "What do you think, Purple?"  
"I believe you're right. Quin? Would you like to make it unanimous?"  
Quin felt her face grow hot. She kept her eyes on the shrinking mound of crumpled paper. How could she have slipped like that? She'd been so careful!  
"Quin? You haven't given me an answer."  
The trashcan was full. She squashed it down to make room for the rest of Red's mess. "No." She went back to the snack tables and began reorganizing the cleaning caddy.  
She felt rather than saw the Tallest's approach, Purple to her right, Red to her left. "Oh, I think you already have." Purple pulled her hair away from her face. "She almost matches your eyes, Red."  
The Tallest laughed. Quin switched around the disinfectant and the furniture polish. She wouldn't rise to the bait; she wouldn't give them that satisfaction  
"Even her ears." Purple gathered up more of Quin's hair. "You know, I never really noticed them before. They're kind of cute." He stroked the curve of her ear with his claw. Quin jerked away, nearly stumbling into Red. The Tallest grabbed her by the shoulder, turning her back toward his co-ruler.  
"I wasn't hurting you, Quin," Purple scolded her, frowning. "Now hold still."   
With Red pinning her in place, the order was unnecessary. Quin shut her eyes as Purple again gathered her hair and piled it on her head. She shuddered as he took up where he left off, tracing the shape of her ear, and Red squeezed her hard enough to make her gasp. Purple seemed not to notice, caught up in his musings.  
"Look, Red, it bends! Isn't that cute?"  
Red snorted. "Adorable. It's _cartilage_ , Purple. Of course it bends."  
"Well, I like it. Maybe we should have this cut.". He ran his other claws through her hair in a rhythmic familiar pattern. "On the other hand, I do like it as it is. So soft and shiny."   
Quin drew in a shaky breath. She and Pepper, her Golden Retriever, at the local park, just sitting and enjoying the day, Pepper nosing a ragged chew toy as Quin absently ruffled her fur. So shiny, so soft…  
_ "Stop it!"_  
Her eyes flew open. Purple's claws were still in her hair, unmoving. Quin stared at him. She could cope with the pointless tasks, the ordering about, Red's threats, even the loss of her water. But not this. "Stop it," she repeated, her voice shaking. "Stop it. …please…"  
"Stop what?" Purple asked mildly. He ruffled her hair. "This?"  
Quin didn't answer. Shame and outrage waged an even battle against panic. She didn't trust herself not to say something that would finally get her that airlock she'd asked for at their first meeting. An epiphany, that.   
Breathing was a hard habit to break.   
"Yes. Please."  
Purple combed his claws through her hair.  
She couldn't say it. She _couldn't__ ._  
"…my Tallest."  
"That's better." Purple smiled, and smoothed her hair back into place. "I think we're getting somewhere now, hmm?"  
After that, her service passed in a vague blur. The Tallest had sent her back early, perhaps out of what passed for compassion in an Irken, perhaps because a subdued slave wasn't as entertaining. She'd spent the rest of the day sewing and trying not to think.  
She knew what they were attempting to do. Were doing. The irrational insistence she sew for them, reversing the proper order of things, distorting her sense of time: all these were intended to break her and reshape her into the mold they wanted.  
Speak truth to power. Give me liberty or give me death. Live free or die trying. Phrases others had used, she had used herself. Easy to speak — much harder to do. Power only feared the truth when truth had a potential audience. Between liberty and living free or dying, self-preservation instinct overrode principle.   
_It's only a matter of time_.  
Seattle, Washington, D.C., Montreal, Genoa…none of her protest training, none of her arrests, had prepared her for this. She should have been able to fight. She should have been able to resist the little mind-games the Tallest played. She should have been able to do something.  
She hadn't. Not really. The Tallest were winning. Today proved that.  
If there were other people here…. We would have what? Organized a sit-in and sang "We Shall Overcome"?  
That was another thing. She'd never been a social butterfly, one of those people who needed people. But she missed people. To look at, to talk to. Forget the Tallest's games, the loneliness would drive her around the bend first. The watchers and their orders had been removed shortly after the Hideous Wet Head Incident; she woke up to the Irken equivalent of a buzzing alarm clock, and her requests for supplies were processed without comment. The only beings she saw were guards, Housekeeping, and the Tallest. The guards and Housekeeping wouldn't speak to her. Hell, Housekeeping wouldn't look at her. Conversing with the Tallest was like trying to navigate a minefield without a map. Though at times—most of the time, if she were honest— even they were preferable to her cell's silence.   
_Give in_, whispered a voice in the back of her mind. _What are you fighting for? You can't win. Don't throw your life away._  
Despair swept through her. She used to believe she wouldn't mind throwing her life away if she knew her death would accomplish something. _If you're not fighting something, Ronnie, you're not happy_. She couldn't begin to count the number of times Vicky had said that to her. It wasn't true, of course. But she did throw — had thrown — her passion fiercely into her causes. Fighting for something beyond the day-to-day, something bigger than herself. She remembered an old boyfriend's dorm room poster, _The Last Defiance_: a mouse flipping off the eagle swooping down on it. Dying for a last "fuck you!" She used to believe in that, too. She used to believe in a lot of things.   
None of them mattered anymore.  
  
Quin woke the next morning, rested and a little off. Rested because there hadn't been a 2 a. m. bath call for a change; a little off because…  
She didn't know.  
She thought about that during while she bathed and dressed. She was still thinking about it when the gray-uniformed Housekeeping staff brought in breakfast and her morning water. "Oatmeal again?" she asked. The little Irken bolted out the door. Quin shrugged. After that first morning, the meals had gotten steadily worse, despite her complaints. When she collapsed from food poisoning in the Tallest's lounge and wound up in the _Massive_'s medical bay that had literally changed overnight. After what happened with her initial guards, she could guess the fate of the former cooks. The food was bland but edible now, and every meal came with a multi-vitamin.  
The Tallest were expending an awful lot of effort and resources on one inferior slave.  
Quin shrugged and washed down the last of the oatmeal with a glass of water. What difference did it make?  
The door opened. "Morning," she greeted the guards. "Aren't you guys early? I'd say 'good' but it isn't. For that matter, I'm not sure it's morning." They looked at her, not responding. They never did. She kept up the one-sided conversations more out of habit than any chance of actual communication. Sighing, Quin fell in between them.   
"Do we have to be in formation like this?" she asked. "Can't you walk behind me for a change? Or in front? You've got weapons, mechanical legs that snap out of those backpack things, and we're on a fricking huge spaceship that I have no knowledge of. Do I look stupid enough to make a break for it? What was that antenna twitch, a yes? Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence. Hey. You, in front. Your antennae are curly. Why? All right! Put the gun down, I'll stop talking!"  
Morning indeed, Quin realized as she entered the audience chamber. Three black-robed Irkens surrounded the Tallest, competing for their attention with other aliens in emerald green uniforms. The black robes were advisors; she'd seen them before, coming in at the tail end of the morning meetings. The others were new. Uncertain, she stood off to one side and waited.  
"My lords, the matter is of utmost urgency—" One of the advisors spoke above his fellows.  
"We realize that, Zinah." Red's glare took in all of the advisors. "Coordinate Planetary Reconfiguration with Organic Sweep Operations." He shot a sidelong glance at the tallest Irken in emerald green. "OSO doesn't need us to hold their claws for that, do they?"  
"Of course not, my lord. But either you or Tallest Purple presiding over the initial meeting will make things proceed more smoothly." The emerald-green Irken paused. "There's also the matter of the …Invaders."  
"What's wrong now?"   
Zinah coughed. "They're not cooperating, my lords. With either Organic Sweep or Planetary Reconfiguration."  
The Tallest exchanged pained looks — or what Quin had come to consider pained looks. "Fine," Purple sighed. "I'll oversee the search coordination between OSO and PR. Tallest Red will deal with Zim and Tak."  
"I'll schedule a time for _us_ to deal with Zim and Tak. You're not shluffing them off on m — You!" Red scowled in her direction, eyes narrowed and antennae dipped down. "How long have you been here?"  
Purple looked up at her; the advisors and Organic Sweep officers followed suit. Quin stepped back. She'd grown accustomed to her guards and the Tallest; presumably they'd grown accustomed to her. Until now she hadn't considered how other Irkens would see her. Expressions ranged from hostile to curious to disgust and, to her surprise, fearful.   
She shifted her attention to Red. "Not very long. The guards just brought me."  
The Tallest rubbed his forehead. "Well, there goes the morning session of RQR. Purple? Any ideas?"  
Purple drummed his claws on his clipboard. "I don't know… we weren't planning on this." He glided over to Quin. "Did you sleep well?"  
"Yes, my Tallest."  
Purple turned to Red. "You?"  
"Like a smeet."  
Purple nodded. "Then you two should be fine. I'm needed elsewhere for a while, Quin. You'll be serving Tallest Red until I return."  
Quin's heart sank. Serving Red alone. Words that should never go together. "Can't I go back to my cell until then?"  
"No, you may not. We discussed this situation before, though we didn't expect it to come up so soon. Don't worry. Tallest Red won't hurt you."   
Quin shot a glance at Red. The Irken smiled at her, a sight Quin knew she would see in her nightmares. "Whose definition of 'hurt' are you using?"  
"Mine," the Tallest chorused. They glared at one another. "Oh, all right," Red said. "Yours."   
"Do as you're told, and you have nothing to worry about." Purple gave Quin a half-smile, tugging on a purple-streaked curl. "Be good." Quin watched him sweep out of the room, the advisors and OSO officers following in his wake. She should have asked Purple if she could go with him, planning session or no planning session.  
"They're gone, Quin, and the door's closed. Turn around."  
She turned around. A spider leg slid from Red's backpack and tapped the floor in front of him. "Come here."  
Red studied her. "I don't like you," he said at last. "You show none of the respect you naturally owe us as your masters. You're willful and stubborn. We spend valuable time and effort training you, and you refuse to cooperate. You're almost more trouble than you're worth. Someday you will get that airlock you first asked for, I guarantee that.  
"But not yet. You're a high-cost investment. Finding a replacement would be a major undertaking. So we're stuck with you."  
Red brought his face close to hers. "And right now, you're stuck with _me_."  
"Sorry to disappoint, my Tallest."  
Red drew himself upright, eyes narrowing. "Hmph. I'll let your inferior sarcasm slide this time, but don't do it again. I'm not Purple. I don't care how soft or cute you are. Clear?"  
"Crystal, my Tallest."  
One corner of Red's mouth twitched. "Maybe you are catching on, worm-baby." He turned and went to his usual station at the main table, gesturing with his claws for her to follow. "Besides you, your other master left me with the overnight transmissions. Keep yourself busy while I go through them. I dunno -- polish the silverware or something. Yeah. Polish the sporks."  
If there was a more tedious and time-consuming job that polishing the Tallest's cutlery, Quin couldn't think of it. Apparently neither could Red, for which she supposed she should be grateful. She got the silverware trays and the cleaning caddy from their respective wall cubbies and retreated to "her" table, the tiny one in the corner. A spider leg grabbed her shirt collar just as she sat down.  
"No, not there," Red said. "Where I can see you."  
"You _can_ see me here."  
"Purple lets you use that table. I'm not Purple. You're not using it. You're sitting…" The spider leg pivoted to Quin's right and gave her a nudge toward one of the oversized visitor's chairs. "… there."  
Quin rolled her eyes. "All right."  
The spider leg tapped her shoulder. Red cleared his throat. "What was that?" he asked, not looking up from the reports.  
"All right, my Tallest."   
Red didn't say anything else, but his antennae flicked in annoyance. Quin dropped into the visitor's chair and went to work on the sporks.   
For superior beings, the Tallest had pretty plebian tastes. Commemorative sporks of every planet conquered by the Irken Empire filled a slot of their own. Despite the Tallest's claims of a universal language, the names were written in an alien script. A small image of each world was set in the handle.   
Eventually there'd be one for Earth.  
Quin swore as the spork she held slipped between her fingers. "Be careful with those," Red told her. "They've got sentimental value. And watch your language. Your inferior cursing pisses me off."  
The morning crept on. The ratio of unpolished to polished sporks slowly increased in favor of the polished. Quin's world narrowed to her chore, punctured by the periodic hisses and mutters and the occasional shout of "They did what?" from the Tallest. Once he shoved the stack of report discs off the table and made her pick them up. "You're welcome, my Tallest," Quin said as she sat down again.  
Her chair whipped around, flinging her against the armrests. Red loomed over her. "I didn't say 'thank you', meat-child. What did I say about your inferior sarcasm?" He raised her face to his, his claws a painful vice-grip mockery of Purple's habitual gesture.  
"Don't do it again," Quin whispered.  
"Very good. You remembered. So why didn't you believe me? Well?"   
Quin didn't answer. Anything she said would be wrong; not saying anything would be wrong, too, but he'd read into her silence whatever he wanted. He'd read what he wanted into whatever she did, regardless.  
He drew a pattern on her cheek with a claw tip. A sudden twist, and Quin cried out in more in shock than pain. Red let go of her. "I'm not Purple. He has more patience for your little rebellions and smeetish games than I do. You're not in a world of pain right now because I agreed with him. For the moment, not forever. The next time it'll be my definition. Understand?"  
"Yes, my Tallest."  
"Good. Get back to work. A spot of blood on any of those sporks, and you'll start all over."  
"Yes, my Tallest."  
Red swept her with an inscrutable gaze, and stormed off to his table. Quin pressed a spare polishing cloth to the cut for a slow hundred-count before attacking the sporks again.   
The tense silence was finally broken by the arrival of the snack cart. Uncharacteristically, Red ordered her to take it to the back of the room instead of demanding his usual brain-freezy and morning nachos.  
"Got to deal with Zim and Tak. I can't put it off any longer." He prodded the hole-filled top of the largest box. "Dlors. Finally. I'm not saving any for Purple, either. Get them ready after the nachos. Don't spare the frosting."  
Quin wheeled the cart to the corner Red indicated, watching him surreptitiously. The Tallest summoned up a transmission split-screen with all the enthusiasm of a Montana Freeman paying taxes. His claws drummed angrily as his command went out, and the faces of two Irken Invaders snapped into view.  
Invader was a title or a rank, not just a job description: that much she'd gathered from overhearing the Tallest's conversations. Quin studied them as they greeted their leader. Nothing distinguished Zim from any other alien except for his height: he was the shortest Irken she'd seen yet. But Tak…. Quin abandoned any pretense of work. Tak's eyes were purple, the only alien besides the Tallest with that color. A metal square hook projected from above her left eye. Her antennae curled, like the guard's, and she sounded distinctly female.   
These two were the Invaders sent to Earth.  
There wasn't anything to be done about them now. This wasn't her concern. She had work to do; she should get back to it.   
She didn't.  
Red cut them off in mid-greeting. "Certain problems have been brought to the attention of your Tallest. You will be available tonight to discuss it with us. Both of you."   
The transmission screen blanked before the Invaders had a chance to protest or agree. Red slumped in his seat. "Well, that's over with for now." He spun around to face Quin. "Eavesdropping and slacking off, huh? Since you're so interested in Invaders, maybe we should have you do a Happy Hour. That'd be a learning experience." One antenna twitched. "What, no pithy Earthenoid comment?"  
"No, my Tallest."  
Red sneered. "Didn't think so. Bring me those nachos and get cracking on the dlors."  
Quin almost asked what dlors were, and then thought better of it. Red didn't like her asking questions about what things were, or how they worked. She opened the can of frosting and removed the box's lid.  
Furry gray spheres were packed in neat rows. A faint, vaguely dusty smell wafted from them Quin stifled a sneeze and picked one up.  
It squeaked.   
She dropped it. The dlor landed on top of its fellows and they shivered like grass in the wind. Quin picked it up again.  
The little creature was warm to the touch, its fur reminiscent of a flop-eared rabbit's. She could feel it trembling in her hand. Nearly hidden from view, two tiny black dots of eyes stared back at her.  
"Hey! What's the holdup?"   
"There's been a mistake," Quin said, not looking at the Irken.  
The Tallest frowned. "There better not be a mistake. We ordered these things months ago." He glided to the cart. "Where?"  
Quin pointed to the box. Red looked inside.  
"What are you talking about? They're fine."  
"They're _alive_!"  
"Yeah, so?"  
"You can't eat them!"  
"Why not? You humans eat meat. Raw, sometimes."  
"Not while it's alive!"  
Red frowned. "Listen, stinkbeast," he said slowly. "I'm going to finish up my reports. You're going to frost these dlors and serve me with a smile. Got it? Good."  
Quin looked down at the dlors for a long moment, then picked up the frosting knife.  
The dlors squirmed in her grip as if they knew their fate. Maybe they did, Quin thought bitterly, coating them in layer after layer of hideous pink frosting. Would the Tallest even care?  
She filled a plate with the pathetic designer "snacks" and set it down in front of Red.  
"You're not smiling," The Tallest said. "Didn't I tell you to? Oh, never mind. You're in such a mood your face would shatter." He snatched up a dlor and squeezed it, grinning at its squeaks. Then he popped it in his mouth.  
"Quin's stomach lurched, and she dropped her gaze to the floor. Don't look and it won't hurt. Don't look and it won't hurt….  
"Mmm, yum." Tiny squeals abruptly cut off by crunching. "Eeth awr reary gud!"  
Quin stumbled away, gagging, and fell to her knees. She couldn't be sick. She didn't dare be sick. There would be no excuse of food poisoning this time. She swallowed the taste of bile.  
"Hey! You better not throw up while I'm eating!" The hem of Red's robe fluttered into her peripheral vision. "Hear me?"  
Quin nodded slowly.  
"Answer me!"  
Quin hesitated, then shook her head.  
"What, you can't talk because you _ would_ throw up?"  
Quin nodded.  
"Huh." She watched Red's hem circle her. "Better than you puking all over the place, I guess. You've got a few minutes to compose yourself, then I want you back at my station."  
Quin nodded. Red's hem disappeared from her peripheral vision.  
She didn't move. Bringing her rebellious gut to heel took effort and energy, and at the moment she was woefully lacking in both. . At last she rose, shook off the pins-and-needles feeling her legs and went over to Red.  
The Tallest had finished his snacks, judging by the empty tray on the table and the frosting smeared on his mouth. "I want seconds. Go easy on the frosting this time." Quin took the tray and turned to leave.  
"Wait a sec," he added. He leaned forward and wiped his mouth off on her hair. "That's better."  
Quin stood there. The sensation of being off, of somehow not-quite-right, smothered her. In the next heartbeat, a welcome, familiar fury seared it to ash as if it had never existed.  
She pivoted on her heel and locked eyes with the Tallest. "No one can me feel inferior without my consent. I am not consenting."  
She swung the tray in a tight, sharp arc and smashed it into Red's face.  
Red blinked, dumbstruck. Then he lunged at her.   
Quin flung herself behind the futile protection of Purple's chair. A spider leg creased her ribs, and she dove under the table. Two more spider legs snaked after her. Quin skittered backward on her hands and knees. If she could put some space between them, if she could get to the damn door, if she were fifteen years younger —  
A spider leg seized her ankle, another her opposite wrist, and dragged her into the open.   
Quin blinked at the sight of her captor. Purple's antennae flared and straightened as he looked from her to Red.  
"What in the name of Irk is going on here?"  
  
  


#  


  
"You call that a punishment?" Red demanded, turning from the private lounge's largest viewscreen.  
Purple sighed and set down his electronic clipboard to face his co-Tallest. Red had been grumbling under his breath since they began organizing the questions for Zim and Tak, ostensibly about incompetent pilots and Invader wanna-bes. Hearing Red vent would allow them to focus on more important issues when he was done, but dealing with it was still aggravating. "Red, you agreed from the beginning to let me handle Quin in these matters." He propped his chin in his claws, mouth curling in a half-smile as he watched the replay of their slave's hundredth performance of "I'm A Little Teapot." Intelligence had found the smeetish ritual among some obscure record from the human's personal files. "I think it's appropriate, given her behavior."  
"I don't. She_ hit _me, Purple!"  
"I made her apologize to you for half on hour, kneeling at your feet. She's been denied water for the next two days—."  
"So she'll wind up in sickbay being treated for dehydration."  
"Let me finish, will you? When she comes back, we'll work her to exhaustion for the same amount of time."  
"That's not good enough! She smacked _me_ in the _face _with a _tray_!"  
"I would have done the same thing, given what you did," Purple snapped. His antennae flared back. "What were you thinking?"  
"_You_ kept telling me humiliation was the key. So I humiliated her. It didn't work."  
"The right kind of humiliation, Red. Something with personal meaning, not just random callousness. That's why that —" Purple jerked his head at the viewscreen. "—and the apology are in a way worse than physical pain. It shows."  
Red snorted. "She was afraid when I cut her."  
"Did she stay afraid?" Red scowled but said nothing. "You get the point. You pushed her too far, too soon. Leave her alone, Red."  
"Oh, of course. Leave her alone, Red," the other Tallest singsonged, mimicking Purple. "Typical."  
Purple's eyes narrowed. "And just what do you mean by that?"  
"Oh, come on!" Red threw his arms in the air, and then crossed them. "You're too attached to this Quin-human, Purple. She's not our slave or a means to ending these asinine rebellions anymore; she's your pet! First it was, 'You be the stick, Red, I'll be the … orange, longish vegetable thingy…'"  
"Carrot," Purple corrected. "And you _like_ being the stick."  
"Yeah, I do. It's fun. But every time I try to be sticklike, you cut me off. You protect her."  
"I do not!"  
"You do too! All the time! Yeah, yeah, you're 'taming' her, you're 'breaking' her to teach the stinkbeasts in the internment camps a lesson in the futility of insurrection —"  
"It's working, you've seen the reports. Incidents dropped by more than two-thirds in the western hemisphere, all but gone in the eastern, informing on potential troublemakers have tripled all over —"  
"Sure, fine, whatever. That's great. Saves us some personnel down there. And speaking of personnel, did you _ have_ to add the bit about the average Irken getting his own slave in the internment camp broadcasts? Now there are people requesting certain humans for their own slaves!"  
"I've set the bar for earning a human slave so high no one can pass. It's good propaganda, Red. Don't worry about it."  
"I'm worried about _you_. Her hair's really neat-looking, so you want it taken care of. You're polite to her. Withholding water is the ultimate punishment instead of a common tool. Great Miyuki, you treat her as if she's almost an Irken sometimes. You _ like_ this pathetically inferior stinkbeast too much, Purple."  
"Don't be ridiculous." It was an automatic response, the correct one. And, Purple was forced to admit, a dodge. He did …not like, no. Like wasn't the proper word. He _appreciated _Quin. Humans relied on water to a point that their bodies refused to function without the proper supply of the vile stuff. What good was a tool if you didn't take care of it? He did have a fondness for her hair with its contrasting colors and its texture. So what? Red's fondness for lasers was more disturbing in his opinion. Besides, Quin was … fun. Her attempts at getting them to behave in a reasonable, rational manner and her conviction in her own inborn equality with them amused and exasperated him. He had at times provoked her into conversations that brought out that particular belief. How she thought was as fascinating as why she thought it.   
But none of this meant he _liked_ her.  
Red naturally couldn't see the difference. Red's strength was spur-of-the-moment ideas and decisions, not long-term goals and details. Those were his. Quin was a long-term plan; of course Red would find his interest with her suspicious.  
Red gave him a look. "Uh-huh," he said. "Right. Face it, Purple. If our little Earthenoid doesn't get back with the program, we'll have to eliminate her sooner rather than later. Or she _could_ be a good little slave and die just a few decades down the road. Either way, you'll be all upset and miserable until you find another one just like her."  
"I would not!"  
"Would too.  
"I would not," Purple ground out. "Let's drop this for now, all right? It's about time to call up Zim and Tak."  
"Do we have to?"  
"Yes, we do."  
The Communications Officer had the main viewscreen up and split in half when The Tallest arrived on the bridge. "Get them on the line," Red said with a sigh, as they sat down. "Let's get this over with."  
"Yes, sir." There was a pause. "Incoming transmissions!"  
Zim and Tak appeared on the screen. Zim had gone to lengths to appear in control: the normal mess of half-finished experiments and projects was gone, and he was alone — no "loyal minions" lurking in the background. Even GIR was out of sight. Tak looked as she always did: loyal, determined, a good Irken soldier.  
But not at an Irken Invader  
"Greetings, my Tallest," they chorused, then exchanged glares. Purple mentally gave them points for patching in to each other as well as the _Massive_. This might not be a wasted effort after all.  
"Yes, yes, greetings to you, too." Red leaned forward. "Do you have any idea why we've requested your presence?"  
"Whatever it is, my Tallest, it is not _Zim's_ fault!" Zim burst out. "Tak is guilty. Guilty!"  
"I am not!" Tak shot back. She pointedly turned her back on Zim. "No, my Tallest. But as an Invader, _I_ will cooperate."  
"I see," Purple said. "Then let me clue you in. I had an interesting meeting with Organic Sweep Operations and Planetary Reconfiguration this morning."  
Earth's conquerors looked at one another. And then the floodgate broke.   
"I tell you, my Tallest, it's a plot of _hers_ to humiliate me! They weren't_ real_ Organic Sweepers. Zim has no need of their aid!"  
"Tallest Purple, Zim tried to persuade them to attack the soldiers under my command. He didn't even care what they were supposed to be doing! I wanted to help —"  
"Lies! _Lies!_"  
"I'm telling the truth, Zim! Go stick your head in a bucket!"  
Zim screamed. "Did you hear that, my Tallest? Tak is a traitor! A traitor!"  
"_That's enough_!" Purple bellowed.   
Tak and Zim fell silent, blinking.  
Red whistled. "Didn't know you had it in you, Purple."  
Purple ignored him. "Your petty squabbles are unimportant. I don't want to hear about them again. You are to cooperate with Organic Sweep and Planetary Reconfiguration in their search? Am I understood?"  
"Yes, sir."  
"Yes, my Tallest." Zim scratched his chin. "My Tallest…what exactly are they looking for?"  
Purple groaned and dropped his head in his hands. "Red…."  
"Hey, you were doing fine just a minute ago."  
"The missing ship, you moron," Tak spat.  
Zim jabbed a finger at her. "Lies! No pathetic Earth defense-thingy could shoot down a superior Irken fighter ship!"  
"Well, one did, Zim." Red steepled his claws. "What about their weapons? You _said_ they only had nuclear warheads. I guess you overlooked something in your surveillance, huh?"  
Tak shook her head vigorously, curled antennae waving. "Tallest Red, the humans had _nothing_ capable of destroying Irken technology."  
"Something took down the Fighter-Escort FE-47, Tak," Purple countered, "with barely enough time for the pilot to send word he was under attack, and no time to tell us by what. It may have been destroyed completely.   
"But what if it wasn't? What if it's found by humans who could use it -- the ones who brought it down?"  
"Bah!" Zim waved his arms. "Forgive me, my Tallest, but what hhhhuman would dare?"  
"Rebels," Purple said. "Specifically, the bunch hiding out somewhere between your respective quadrants."  
The guilt and shock on their faces brought a cold satisfaction to Purple's heart. Giving Zim and Tak their own areas of control next to each other had been Red's idea, not his. He understood Red's reasoning: Zim was still Zim, despite his "victory", and Tak was perhaps a little too competent. Should she grow have a sudden growth spurt and become a threat .... Better to let them fight each other and stay out of the way of the serious work. A good plan.  
As he might have predicted, a good plan that fell apart at the first sign of real trouble.   
Tak's antennae writhed. "My Tallest, I swear to you, I went through every government's defense programs. Nothing. Even the newest prototype fighter planes couldn't take on an FE and win. They simply weren't advanced enough."  
"The FE-47 has not been found," Purple said carefully. "There's no sign of debris, and the auto-locator hasn't triggered. Now, the auto-locator could have been damaged in the attack. But that returns us to the question: if the humans didn't shoot it down, who did?"  
Silence.  
"Um. Sir," Tak ventured at last. "Have you and Tallest Red considered…friendly fire?" The last two words came out in an embarrassed, terrified rush.   
Zim screeched in outrage. Red snarled at him, and the little Irken contained himself to pulling on his antennae in despair. Purple bit back a sigh. Sometimes the "perfect, infallible mighty Irken military" propaganda pushed it too far.   
"We have," Purple replied. "There were a few incidents, none serious."  
"My Tallest, it could be the Planet Jackers! They broke the Irken-Planet Jacker treaty before." "No, we would have seen them before now. They would have made themselves known. They're not subtle. Those tall-but-inexplicably-dumb aliens who abducted you, Zim. What about them?"  
Zim's face screwed up in disgust. "They may have mastered space travel, my Tallest, but they're too stupid. Maybe the Nhar —"   
His sentence died in a computerized white noise scream. Zim and Tak's images blurred, blanked out and reappeared with matching expressions of surprise.  
"My lords." The Communications Officer's eyes were huge above his face shield. "Incoming transmission on the diplomatic frequency."  
Red looked at Purple. "I thought we shut that one down."  
"We did."  
"Sirs, it's attempting to override the current feed with the Invaders."  
"Block it," Purple said.  
"Let it through!" Red countered. "Give me a subvocal link to Tactical. Narrow audio so whoever's calling only hears Tallest Purple, nothing in the background."  
"Yes, sir!"  
The viewscreen went black. Purple felt his spider legs prodding at his pack. The Tallest are never nervous, he told himself. His spider legs didn't believe him.  
He nearly let them out when he saw what appeared on the viewscreen.  
A bipedal, dark gray felinoid in what appeared to be military uniform stood behind a spaceship's control panel.   
"To the Almighty Tallest, rulers of the Irken Empire, salutations from the Dusajji Compact." It dipped its head briefly. "Admiral Desumu of the Dusajji Warship _Akinama_ , currently serving aboard the Dusajji Science Vessel _Bubastis_."   
"Oh, no. Not _them_. What are _they_ doing here?" Red's muttered command reverberated eerily in Purple's bones. "Tactical, scan their ship. I want offensive and defensive capabilities."  
Purple leaned forward, paying no attention to Red. He smiled, not caring — hoping, actually — that the expression resembled more a baring of teeth.   
"The Almighty Tallest return the salutations to the esteemed sentients of the Dusajji Compact, Admiral," he said. "We have a question. A couple of them, actually.   
"What's a Admiral doing on a science vessel? And why are you here?"  
"Pirate activity's been reported near this system for some time. Dusaj and some of her Compact allies finally tracked down enough leads to determine when and where said pirates might strike next. Bubastis is on an archeological and geological mi —"  
"_WHAT THE FUCK DID THEY DO TO THE PLANET_ ?"   
The high-pitched, feminine shriek of outrage drowned out the Admiral and continued, only slightly less loud but without pause. "Half of China's gone the Middle East glassy slag native populations decimated look at what they're doing to the polar caps where's Japan Mox Admiral Irks fucking insane look —"  
The voice abruptly fell silent.  
"Your Excellencies, one of the crew is …upset. If you'll pardon my rudeness while I attend to matters, you'd have my gratitude, as well as that of the Compact."   
Purple waved his claws magnanimously. "Of course, Admiral."  
"Thank you, Your Excellencies." The screen went blank.  
Purple slumped back in his chair. "This is so not what we need right now."  
"Tell me about it," Red growled. "Tactical, where's that report?"  
"Sorry, sir. Their scrambler technology is different from ours. We're having a little trouble."  
Purple hissed. "Try harder!"  
"Sirs, we've determined there's only three occupants of the ship. From the size and configuration, it is one of their science vessels, as they claim. No offensive capabilities to speak of, but…" The Communication Officer's antennae bent once. "There seems to have been some modifications made for extra maneuverability and speed."  
"Huh. What for?"  
"Do we need to know?" Red turned to face him. "I'll bet you credchips to dlors _they've_ got some thing to do with the FE-47's disappearance."  
"Incoming transmission from the _ Bubastis_!"  
"Tactical, place the Massive's laser cannons on alert. Purple, chat up the Admiral while I decide when to shoot them out of orbit."  
"Red, I don't think that's a good idea —"  
"What, are you afraid of these cat-beasts and their pals?"  
Before Purple could respond, the Dusajji Admiral reappeared onscreen. "Ah, Admiral, welcome back!" he said.  
The Dusajji made his little head-bob gesture. "It's good to be back, Your Excellencies." Purple thought his eyes flicked toward Red. "Let me apologize on behalf of the Dusajji Compact for that unforgivable outburst of First Scholar Feywu's earlier."  
"Oh, that's all right. Blowing you to space dust will make us feel much better," Red muttered. Purple's antenna twitched.  
"Apology accepted, Admiral." He leaned forward. "First Scholar Feywu?"  
Desumu showed amazing intelligence for an inferior species and took the hint. "A student from one of our better universities, close to becoming a full Scholar in her fields. As I said, _ Bubastis_ is on an archaeological and geological mission to the third planet closest to the sun. The Compact Council decided to use its mission as cover for a trap for the pirates. My presence is to insure that the protocols of arrest and search and seizure are carried out."  
"I see." Purple tapped his chin. "And you do this all by your lonesome? To pirates with ships with lots of weapons and stuff?"  
One of the Dusajji's eyebrows quirked upward. He blinked. "That'd be rather foolish, Your Excellencies."  
"Yes, wouldn't it? So why did you? You say the _Bubastis_ is a science vessel, and science vessels don't have a lot of weapons."  
"Tactical, power up the laser cannons, slowly enough so that they don't notice if they're scanning us."  
"Sirs, that's not possible for long —"  
"I know, soldier! Just do it!"  
"No, they don't," the Admiral agreed. "None, in fact."  
Purple folded his arms. "None."  
"Sirs, another ship has entered past the Belt. It's sending out vitals and…"   
"What! How did it get past -- Never mind, increase power to the lasers!"  
"Sirs, it's a Dusajji ship… a warship. The _Akinama_."  
Red cursed. "How soon could it get here?"  
"So how did you plan to capture these pirates, Admiral?" Purple asked.  
"We have backup firepower, Your Excellencies. My ship, the _Akinama_, is only a half-hour behind us."  
"Ten minutes, sir," the Communications Officer answered.  
"Increase power. By the time that damn warship gets here it'll be too late —"  
"My lords, another ship has entered the system. A viyshoon freighter. And there's a third overtaking it, my lords. It's bypassed _Akinama_. It's — it's…"  
"What?" Red demanded.  
The CO's antenna wilted. "… a nriu news-pod skimmer, sir."  
"I see." Purple rubbed his chin. "But your ship isn't in the vicinity, Admiral. Rather risky, don't you think?  
"Life is full of risks, Your Excellencies."  
"_Damn it_! Block our transmissions!"  
The CO shook his head. "Too late, my lord. They've got us. Sensors indicate they're scanning us as we speak."  
"Even the subvocals?"  
There was a pause. "Can't rule out that possibility, my lord."  
Red hissed. "Purple, you heard?"  
"Yes."  
"Find out what else they wanted from Earth. Power down the lasers. Break subvocal contact."  
The reverb in Purple's bones disappeared. He shook his head; as he hoped, the Dusajji admiral took it for reproof.  
"You don't agree with me, Your Excellencies?"  
"Oh, I couldn't agree more, Admiral," Purple said ironically. "But I still have to wonder why you would undertake such a venture…and what Dusaj's true interest is in this world. You mentioned an archaeological and geological mission?"  
"The risk was considered worth it. The mission's staff, once their duty was explained to them, concurred. Dusaj's interest in Sol III, or Earth, as the natives called it, is complex. We had a colony on this planet once; abandoned when it became obvious the indigenous hominids were advancing in civilization. We had some hand it that, it seems."  
Red drummed his claws. "And that was … what? And why does it matter now?"  
"From what I recall of my academy days, the hominids worshipped us as gods."  
Red fixed the admiral with a steely gaze. "That takes care of the archaeology. What about the rest of it?"  
The admiral spread his hands. "You'd have to ask a better scholar than me, Your Excellencies. I'm just a soldier."  
"Then we have only your word about the veracity of this … mission."  
"No, Your Excellencies." Another Dusajji walked into view from offscreen, from the voice that one that had been hysterical earlier. Her fur was light gray with darker stripes, and she wore a lab coat over a gray-blue smock and pants. "You have my word as well."  
She sounded calm, almost friendly, and put Purple on edge. "Yours?" he echoed.  
She inclined her head, even more briefly than the Admiral had done. "First Scholar Feywu, Your Excellencies. One part of my Scholar's thesis was —" She cast the faintest accent on the word _ was_. "— centered on the ruins of one of the old temples where the humans worshipped us; the other on the geological changes that enabled such a state of preservation. I have my notes and rough draft if you wish to see them."  
"No, that's all right," Red said.  
"Are you sure? There's quite a bit on the nature of the planet's population, their psychology and what drives them. It may be helpful with the slave rebellions you've been having."   
"Slave rebellions?" Purple managed a tone of pure confusion. "What slave rebellions?"  
The First Scholar blinked, slowly. "Oh. I'm sorry. Was that supposed to be a secret?"  
Red bared his teeth in a smile. "Don't worry about it. _If _ there are slave rebellions, they're _our_ business. Not yours."  
"No, Your Excellencies, they're not. First Scholar, go see if there are any more messages from the _Akinama_ ."  
"Of course. Admiral. Your Excellencies." The First Scholar moved out of sight.  
"Well, Admiral," Red said, "now that the scientific mission is impossible, what are you going to do?"  
"About the pirates? My orders were to stay in the vicinity until they were encountered and caught."  
"I doubt we'll have problems with your pirates, Desumu."  
"I doubt you will, either. However, your presence means they will seek other bases of operations. We may have to remain in-system in order to track them." He paused.  
"Then, there is the matter of Sol III itself."  
"It's been claimed by the Irken Empire, Admiral," Purple said flatly. "It's ours."  
The Dusajji nodded. "Obviously. But there may be certain things Dusaj, and the Compact, would like access to nonetheless. For a price, of course."  
Red and Purple looked at each other. "Like what?"   
"I'm not certain myself. Some of the animals, perhaps, or the minerals. Even possibly some of the hominids. I would have to contact the Compact Council to be sure."  
"How long would that take?" Red asked.  
"Two days, perhaps. The Council would have to convene and discuss the matter. I would hope to have even a tentative offer to present to you at the end of that time."  
Red and Purple looked at each other. "All right, Admiral," Purple said. "You have your two days. We are _not_ promising _anything_ beyond a willingness to listen. In the meantime you — including the viyshoon and nriu — will _not_ interfere with our operations, any aspect of them. Am I understood?"  
"Perfectly, Your Excellencies. I will be in contact within two days. Good evening to you both." He nodded, and the screen went blank.  
Red slumped in his chair. "What next? A request for a tour of the _Massive_? What do they really want with this world, anyway?"  
"Maybe just what they said."  
Red snorted. "You don't believe that anymore than I do."  
"Not really…but it is a possibility. Who knows why these inferior species act like they do?" Purple sighed. "Why'd you power down the lasers?"  
"Strategy," Red spat out. "The Compact's motto is 'Attack one, attack all.' We're not in a position to deal with them. Not yet, and certainly not right now.  
"The nriu are out there, with decoding techniques and transmissions and snooping technology that can penetrate ours. Firing on the _Bubastis_ would have beyond stupid; they'd've broadcast it to Compact space almost as soon as it happened. The damned bugs are going to be watching us, Purple. Watching and recording and broadcasting. We'll have to go to our strongest encryptions and codes."  
"Which will make Desumu think we're up to something."  
"So? We will be!"  
"Maybe we should keep the most innocuous stuff clear. Let them see some, so they don't suspect all of it."  
"They'll suspect that, Purple."  
"Let them. They can't accuse us of hiding nefarious plans under inter- and intra-ship communiqués, now can they? Desumu would look foolish. I get the impression he doesn't like looking foolish."  
"Oh, all right," Red, sighed. "But the first sign sensitive information's being tracked through the clear transmissions, the encryption gets slapped on everything."  
"Deal." Purple rubbed his forehead. "Oh…you're supposed to check on Quin's seams tonight."  
"For the love of — How can you think about that at a time like this?"  
"Because it's her routine. We have to keep her on routine for a while, until we screw it up. Besides, it'll help your mood."  
"True…" Red steepled his claws. "Think she'll have a straight seam this time?"  
Purple rolled his eyes. "No. _I_ could do better than that meat-child!"  
"Hey, having her sew was your idea."  
"Don't remind me."  
Red snorted and clapped Purple on the shoulder. "You round up the Communications and Intelligence officers and give them the run-down on new procedures. I'll go inflict some stress on our little stink-beast. Meet me in the lounge afterward. I'm going to need a drink."  
  


#  


The screen went blank, and Admiral Desumu felt tension ease out of his bones ever so slightly. For whatever reasons, the Irkens hadn't fired on them. The crew of the _Bubastis _had the promise of two more days of continued existence and the opportunity to relay the situation back to the Council. Desumu was not a religious man, but if he returned safely to the _Akinama_, he'd break a roosting fowl's neck at the Shrine of Suktara. He was a superlative bluffer and knew it, but the nriu's appearance alone had tipped the cards in their favor.   
As far as they could.  
"Feywu, what in hell were you thinking?"   
The First Scholar was at the communications panel, cycling in the newest transmission from the nriu's newspod. She looked up at him.  
"My Scholar's thesis is gone under four feet of glassy slag." Her voice was calm. Too calm. "Suktara's tail, Irkens are ugly. Uglier than ugly. I cannot believe how much I despise them." She printed out a batch of transmissions. "I want to poke out their eyes and use them as marbles. I want to bat them around the room like a ball. Pounce on them and break their joints. Pull their wings off — do they have wings? They should. I wonder what they taste like?"  
"First Scholar, that is enough. Your conduct is unbecoming a sentient being."  
Feywu rounded on him, ears back. "My conduct?" She slammed down her stylus. "My conduct? For love of Kesh, Admiral, what about _theirs_?"  
"I realize the loss of your Scholar's thesis is a great blow —."  
Feywu swung an arm; stylus, printouts and a half-finished cup of tea clattered to the ship's floor, barely missing Mox.   
"This isn't about my Scholar's thesis!" she screamed. "_It's about six billion people dead_!"   
"First Scholar, _stand down_!" Desumu roared.  
The First Scholar's ears flattened to her skull, and her claws flexed. She spun away, gripping the edge of the communications table. Desumu counted silently. When he reached ten, she turned back to face him, her expression once again composed. Mox, the Admiral noted, was hunched over the comm., seemingly oblivious, but his ears were pricked and alert.  
"How could they do that, Admiral? How? And how can you be so calm?"  
"I'm appalled at what the Irken Empire has done." He was appalled at the Irken Empire, period. "I lack the emotional attachment to Sol III —"  
"Earth."  
"— Earth that you do. My duty is to the Dusajji Compact. I will not have that duty interfered with by civilian sensitivities. I can do nothing for the Compact, let alone any remaining Earth hominids, if I'm dead. The Irkens nearly shot us out of space as it was."  
Feywu's eyes widened. There was a thump from Mox's direction; the white-and-black furred pilot ignored his fallen headset. "What?"  
"An old Irken tactic: they keep their enemy talking while they power up lasers or surround them."  
"Why didn't they?" Mox asked.  
Desumu picked up the sodden printouts, stylus and cups tossing them in the trash recycler. "The viyshoon and the nriu. Especially the nriu. Their decoding and transmissions capabilities still outrank ours, no matter how fast we upgrade. I'd wager they're better than the Irkens as well. The Empire doesn't like an audience."  
"So now what?" Feywu folded his arms.  
"I talk to the Council."  
"And?"  
"Do what I'm told."  
"Fine. What about us?" She waved her hand at Mox.   
"You'll do what you're told, Lieutenant."  
It took a moment to sink in.  
"Lieutenant? Admiral, I'm not in the Fleet."  
"You are now."  
Feywu stared at him in disbelief "You can't do this!"  
"I just did. The Compact Articles of Militia grants an officer with sufficient rank to enlist any citizen of the Compact under extreme conditions. I have the rank. You're citizens. If these conditions aren't extreme, nothing is." Desumu cocked an eyebrow. "Unless you have a moral objection, First Scholar?"  
"Yes, I have a moral objection. I have a moral objection to being shot at!"  
"Objection noted and denied."  
Mox sniggered.  
"Watch your tone, Warrant Officer."  
Mox blinked. "Uh… what did you say?"  
"You heard me."  
"But I've got a criminal record. I'm working off my 200,000 hours of community service as a University pilot. Doesn't that disqualify me?"  
"No."  
Mox's ears drooped. "Then why is she a lieutenant and I'm just a warrant officer?"  
"Lieutenant dhus Atkir holds the rank she does because it's required. Most attachés and diplomatic liaisons in the Fleet are lieutenants or higher."  
"Diplomatic liaison? To the Irkens?" Feywu's golden eyes were huge. "Have you lost your mind?"  
Desumu set his ears flat. "What was that, soldier?"  
"Have you lost your mind, _sir_ ? I distinctly recall saying I despise Irkens and want to tear them to bloody bits. Those don't strike me as desirable qualities in a diplomat. Mox gets along with almost everyone. Why not give him the job?"  
He had expected this. "Warrant Officer dhus Saarvi, what do you know of Sol III, known to the natives and certain Compact factions as Earth?"  
"Um." Mox scratched his head. "It's got lots of water…and killer nip…"  
"There's your answer, Lieutenant. You're what I have to work with. Your knowledge of Earth and its natives are an advantage the Irkens don't have."  
"Sir, why aren't you the diplomatic liaison?" Mox asked.  
"_Akinama_ is ten minutes out from here. The Irkens know I'm her ranking officer. If I set foot on any ship of theirs, they'll find a way to take me prisoner. No matter what protocols they promise to uphold. I'd be tortured into revealing the _Akinama_ 's codes and whatever else it strikes them to ask."  
Desumu watched the new Warrant Officer's ears twitch as he worked up his courage. "Isn't there … well… torture resistance training or something you guys have to go through?"   
"Yes, there is. To keep from breaking when your comrades or civilians are worked on."  
"So I'm the liaison because I'm expendable," Feywu said bitterly.  
"Because you know nothing of military value. The Tallest were introduced to you as an academic; you behaved as a civilian. They'll guess your new rank is some sort of emergency measure. They may try to intimidate you, but frankly, you're not worth torturing."  
"Thank you, sir. I feel so much better."  
"Watch the sarcasm, Lieutenant. You need to remember your rank and duties. Especially once you deal with the Tallest."  
"Admiral, are you sure the Tallest would do all this torture and spying and stuff?" Mox shook his head. "I've seen some of their broadcasts. They're such jerks."  
"They're jerks, dhus Saarvi. Not stupid."  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter Four

  
Under no definition of the term could a nriu newspod be called comfortable. Designed by the insectoid species for the storage, sorting and distribution of the data collected by the newspod skimmers, little living space was left for its crew. The word most often used to describe a newspod by non-nriu was "claustrophobic." The too-cramped arrangement never bothered the nriu, however.  
Desumu wished it didn't bother him, either.   
Newspod 761 had the most up-to-date blocking and transmitting equipment available, making it the best option for his long-distance conference with the Compact Council. Barring some freak accident, there was no way the Irkens could eavesdrop on the meeting. The price paid was being trapped in a cubicle seven feet by nine.  
The illusion of spaciousness projected by the holographic image of the Council chamber didn't help. The nriu captain and Headmouth Tiutiko had offered him her own chair. Desumu refused the gracious offer out of strategy as well as courtesy. Standing forced the Councilors to view him as an equal, not a supplicant. A minor advantage, but an advantage nonetheless.  
As things were turning out, he needed every advantage he could get.  
"You are certain of this, Admiral?" the viyshoon Councilor asked. "That the Irkens fully intend to use this planet?"  
"Councilor Sharm, the Tallest themselves laid claim to it during our initial exchange. Given their past history with captured territory, I'd say the exploitation of Earth is a certainty."  
The viyshoon's silver brows dipped down. "But you saw no sign of actual planetary reconfiguration, Admiral. Not even the indication of a temporary docking station being built."  
"Councilor," Desumu said, keeping his voice very calm, "the Irkens have just subjugated the planet. Apparently there are pockets of resistance from the native hominids in existence. The Organic Sweep is still ongoing. Until it's done and the natives are completely pacified, they won't build anything."  
Sharm tilted his head to one side, conceding the point. "Resistance," he murmured. "Our distant cousins are resilient…." He swept steel-colored hair from his yellow-and-orange eyes. "Resourceful. Then the possibility exists the Irkens may lose interest and leave."  
"No, Councilor, it does not."  
The viyshoon frowned, his skin deepening to burnished bronze in irritation. "Your arrogance is unbecoming, Admiral."  
"My arrogance is founded in experience and knowledge. The Compact has intelligence from Hobo 13 and the Planet-Jackers about the Irkens, and the Irken Empire's behavior speaks for itself. We may not have as much information as we want, but I know the Irken mindset as well as any of my fellow officers and — with all due respect — better than any being present."  
"Are you telling me my job, Admiral?"  
"No, Councilor. I am telling you mine."  
Murmurs circled the Council table. Desumu met Sharm's glare with a steady gaze. He hated the viyshoon representative as a smug, self-satisfied prig with a steadfast refusal to see anything that didn't fit his view of how the universe worked. The Admiral wondered how large the bribe had been and to whom Sharm had paid it.  
"Councilor Sharm, I believe your allotted time has expired." Chairwoman Servan's voice silenced the murmurs. "I for one accept the Admiral's analysis of the situation in Sol system, and thank him for it."  
Sharm shot the Chairwoman a look of pure disgust, but said nothing more. Servan nodded regally at the tsaata representative. "Councilor Arbanos, the floor is yours."  
Arbanos ran his fingers nervously around his collar and cleared his throat. "If I may bring up some history, since the Admiral broached the topic? The Dusajji Compact signed the LTOW Accord with the Irken Empire over seventy-five years ago. This is the Accord's first real test. Shouldn't we then do what it says and … look the other way?"  
More murmurs. Desumu eyed the tsaata with a mix of disdain and grudging admiration. The Irken Empire had nearly absorbed the tsaata's three systems; in fact, the Dusajji Compact's scooping up the tsaata beneath the Empire's nose had instigated the LTOW Accords. He could understand why even the hint of a possibility of confrontation with the Irkens evoked the tsaata's appeasement instinct; he simply didn't agree with it. Still, the suggestion was a brave act, for Arbanos. In his forty years in front of the Council, this was only the second time Desumu had heard the alien speak.  
"The system's outer planets are a potential mining treasure-trove," Sharm pointed out immediately. "We can't completely ignore that."  
Arbanos blinked nervously. "Is mining worth going to war over?"  
Sharm shrugged. "War is not the only option here." His eyes flicked over Desumu. "Despite what some may think."  
"Is not Sol III a dusajji Protectorate?" Chiitok, the nriu Councilor, asked. Her voice synthesizer transmuted her native clicks and squeaks into a smooth, melodious female voice. "Is it not in Dusaj's interest to protect its own?"  
Desumu looked at Servan. The Chairwoman's green eyes met his; Desumu shook his head slightly. She was dusajji, head of her canton and the Council Chairwoman. Let her do the politician's work.  
"Sol III was never officially designated as a Protectorate," Servan said.   
Chiitok's multi-faceted eyes blinked. "May I inquiry as to why?"  
"In the beginning, simple distance: Sol III was our most far-flung colony. With its abandonment, and as time passed and the hominids advanced, the question of what changes if any to make to its status became a moot point. It was only in the last centuries when scholars, religious leaders and historians began to take an interest in our involvement there that the issue resurfaced. Politics kept it unresolved. In the last few years steps had been taken to declare it a Status Three — Intelligent Life, Surveillance Without Contact — Protectorate." Trellic paused. "Steps that are again a moot point, now."  
"So Dusaj has no grounds to insist on any aggressive action." Arbanos bobbed his head. "The LTOW Accord would stand. The Empire goes its way, we go ours."  
"It's not that simple," Desumu said. "If I may direct your attention to the map-screen behind you."   
As one, the Councilors turned.   
Desumu gestured to his right. Star systems lit up with a green glow. "Compact territory."  
He gestured to his left. A considerably larger number of systems burned bright red. "Irken territory."  
He jabbed at a spot separated by less than a finger's-width from a Compact system. The insignificant star shone with a pearly glow. "Earth."   
Desumu looked around the Council.  
"The Irken Empire is on our doorstep."  
Arbanos dropped his head into his hands and sobbed. Sharm's eye-shields shuttered down. Chiitok drew in her foreclaws to her chest in the nriu defensive-offensive posture. Reactions from other Council representatives were less restrained: among the chaos Desumu caught the strains of a kichai curse-chant.  
"ORDER!" Servan's amplified command resounded through the chamber. "Gentlebeings, control yourselves — we cannot decide on a plan of action if we give way to fear!"  
Desumu waited for the noise and hysteria gradually died away. It took some time. Too much time. For Desumu, it was a distressing indicator of how blind – how complacent — the Compact itself and its member species had grown. They should have expected this sooner or later. The Irken Empire and the Compact had been lazily staring at one another and then away for nearly three centuries. The LTOW Accord had merely formalized an arrangement that couldn't last. Empire and Compact alike were expansionist, territorial and willing to fight to keep what it had. On the Compact's side, it was the Council's business to enact those goals politically.  
Where politics ended, the Fleet's business began  
"Thank you all for your cooperation," Servan said, as Arbanos' aide administered a shot to the tsaata and left. "Like you, I am distressed and dismayed at the matter before us. I fully believe we can decide what is best for the Compact if we set aside petty grievances and differences. Admiral, how long until the Tallest expect an answer from you?"  
Desumu silently groaned. He could see where this was heading. "Two days, Madame Chairwoman."  
The kichai representative stood up from her seat. "Two _days_? That's _it_? Admiral, were you _ insane_ ? We'll never —"  
"Never is a strong word, Councilor Xiang," Servan cut in smoothly. "If we maintain our focus, we _can _ reach a decision. What is a few hours' of sleep to the fate of the Compact? Admiral?"  
"As you say, Madame Chairwoman."  
Desumu slept, or tried to, during the adjournments when the Secondary and Primary representatives of each member species traded places in the debate. All too often his rest was interrupted by questions ranging from the Fleet's estimate of Irken military numbers to the fighter squadrons on the _Akinama _to the names of medical botanicals harvested from Sol III in the last year. The nriu crew searched through their datafiles in search of answers with a disgustingly chipper attitude. Desumu depleted their supply of stay-awake stimulants and watched the Council proceedings with an ever-growing relief that he hadn't gone into politics.  
With fourteen hours to spare, the Council presented their decision. Standing upright by sheer force of will, Desumu congratulated them on their foresight and ingenuity assuring a bright new future in Irken/Compact relations. He saluted, bid them good-bye and good health and cut the transmission.  
Then he collapsed to the floor and passed out.  
Only moments later, it seemed, he was prodded awake.  
"Admiral," said the nriu bending over him, "there is a private transmission from Madame Chairwoman Servan. We endeavored to explain your need for undisturbed rest, but she was most insistent."  
Desumu hauled himself upright. "Put her on," he grumbled.  
"Admiral. Do you not wish to groom yourself first?"  
"No. If Servan's insisting on seeing me now, she'll see me now."  
The nriu blinked. "As you wish."  
The cubicle walls vanished, replaced with the Chairwoman's private meeting room. Servan, looking far too clean and refreshed, dipped her head in an equal's greeting.  
"Thank you for your time, Admiral."  
"You're welcome, Madame Chairwoman. What do you want?"  
"To issue you your orders."  
That got his attention, and not pleasantly. "The Council's offer makes my orders clear."  
"What I tell you now supercedes the Council's offer."  
Desumu felt the hair along his spine stiffen. "Go on."  
"It is imperative the Irken Empire leave Sol system. You are to find some way to make sure it does. Use whatever material you have at hand."  
Desumu sighed heavily. "Why wasn't _that_ the decision? This … proposal is…" He hesitated, torn between courtesy and truth. Truth won. "Sheer stupidity."  
"Because too many are terrified of provoking the Empire."  
"Not without reason, Servan."  
"Given. But I do not agree with the common wisdom that the Irkens will be content to take Sol and go no further." She folded her arms within her trailing sleeves. "Neither do you."  
"No."  
Servan studied him for a long moment. "You aren't going to protest, Admiral?"  
"Protest to who? You? The Fleet Admiral? The Compact needs to show a united front, not its internal politicking."  
"You should have run against me, Desumu."  
"No."  
"Our cantons are ancient rivals. Where's your love of tradition?"  
"At home, in my closet."  
The Chairwoman chuckled softly, shaking her head. "That sounds like a sense of humor, Admiral. Your reputation is slipping."  
Desumu ignored the bait. "Is there anything else you wish to tell me?"  
"Yes. Avoid bringing down a full-scale war on our heads."  
"You have a lot of faith in me."  
"More than you can imagine, Admiral. More than you can imagine."  
  
  
#  
  
"The Admiral's on his way back, Lieutenant."  
Feywu hunched her shoulders. "Good for him." She highlighted the estimated damage to the Blue Ridge Mountains on the scan printout in front of her. The information wasn't useful — not anymore — but it made her feel productive.  
"Skimmer's preparing to undock from the newspod. Want to watch?"  
Feywu grunted and made a notation on the destruction of the Great Wall of China.  
"Lieutenant, what's knotting your tail?"  
"Don't call me that," Feywu snapped.  
"Why not?" Mox swiveled his chair to face her. "You've got the rank."  
"Don't want it, didn't ask for it, don't care." She glared at him. "Dhus Chohun can damn well take it back." Using Desumu's canton name set them as social equals, something she knew they were not. Still, it drove home her position.  
Mox's ears twitched. "But I have to if Desumu's around."  
"If he's around, that's one thing. Otherwise, don't."   
"Fine. Whatever."  
Feywu bit back a sigh. She hadn't thought the pilot-cum-Warrant Officer would metamorphose into such a toadlicker. He didn't seem the type. She shoved back from her station and went to the com, hovering over Mox's shoulder. "So where's the show?"  
Mox hit a button and cleared the stand-by from the overhead. A shot of the newspod took its place. All five teardrop-shaped newskimmers were in their bays, resembling nothing so much as petals on a flower. Slowly one detached from the newspod. The com light flashed; Mox switched the control from headset to ship-wide. The nriu's trademark smooth female voice filled the bridge  
"_Bubastis_, this is newskimmer _Marigold_. Respond."  
"Responding, _Marigold_." Mox rubbed his nose. "_Marigold_, weren't you the _Potholder_?" Newskimmers were named, unlike the newspods which were numbered. As a result, nriu were prone to choose names from anything that struck their fancy.  
"Affirmative, _Bubastis_. The change displays Newspod 761's solidarity with the Compact at this time. As well, the Headmouth found marigolds more aesthetically pleasing than potholders."  
Mox and Feywu exchanged a look. "Copy that, _Marigold_."  
"Meetpoint in five minutes, _Bubastis_ . Please have connectors extended."  
"Copy that, _Marigold_. Connectors extending."  
_ Bubastis_ trembled slightly as the connectors and the _Marigold_ took hold of each other. Feywu fancied she could even hear a faint clang of metal on metal. She watched the airlock-warning light slide from green to red. "Mainlock open," Mox said. "Mainlock closed. Retracting connectors, _Marigold_."  
"Copy, _Bubastis_. Thank you and welcome. _Marigold_ out."  
Mox left his station to stand at the bridge door. Moments later Desumu emerged from the mainlock chamber onto the bridge proper. The pilot saluted. "Sir!"  
"At ease, Warrant Officer." Desumu's eyes slid over Feywu, still at the com. If there was anything beyond exhaustion in his gaze, she couldn't find it. "Lieutenant, start reviewing this." He held out a recording capsule.   
"Our orders. Study them well. There _will_ be a quiz later. Warrant Officer, call up scans of the proper rank insignia for you and dhus Atkir, and have them replicated. Pinned-on printouts will have to do for now." He ran a hand over his face, and turned to the corridor that led to their bunks. "Wake me in five hours."  
"There's eight hours left on the deadline, Admiral," Feywu pointed out.  
Desumu shook his head. "Wake me in five hours," he repeated. "And get cracking." He disappeared down the corridor.  
Feywu looked at Mox. Mox shrugged. "We've got our orders," he said philosophically.  
It was easy for Mox, Feywu thought bitterly, sliding the recording capsule in its reader on the computer console. All he had to do was pilot the ship. She had to deal with the Irkens directly. Her, a diplomatic liaison. The idea still boggled her mind.   
The contents of the capsule rolled up the screen. Feywu skimmed through the elaborate greetings demanded by protocol and into the proposal itself.   
Less than a quarter way through, she scrolled up to the top and began again, this time continuing to the end. Disbelieving, she read it a second time. And a third.   
After the fourth, she shut off the reader and stared straight ahead. "I can't believe it," she said. "I cannot believe it. The Council has lost its collective mind!"  
"Huh?"  
Feywu shook her head. "Look at this."  
Mox read over her shoulder. "To Their Excellencies The Almighty Tallest of the Irken Empire —"  
"Skip that. Drop down half the screen and start there."  
She watched his face as he read, pinpointing with a grim satisfaction when polite confusion segued to bafflement and then to disbelief. "Is this right?" he asked, ears flicking nervously.   
"Apparently."  
Mox seemed to shrink in on himself. "That's…bad," he whispered. "I don't know politics from a pulsar, and I know that's bad." He looked up at Feywu. "I 'skimmed Irken territory with the Vhaan-Balamir cartel. Irkens demand the biggest bribes, and are the biggest double-crossers. This is giving them a green flag. Why didn't Desumu argue against this?" Mox scrolled further down. "He should have objected. Strenuously."  
Feywu scowled. "I don't know. But you better believe I'm going to ask him."  
Time dragged. Feywu went over the Council's terms again before reviewing Compact and Fleet diplomatic protocols. Mox printed out their insignia and drove her to distraction fussing with the placement on their cleanest shirts, then insisted on adjusting her shirt's fit to display her bars to best effect. Feywu was ready to clip his ears when Desumu returned to the bridge.  
He looked more alive and less like a walking corpse, having taken the time to bathe and change into his dress blues. He nodded at Mox, who had immediately jumped to attention, and frowned at her.  
"The first thing you'll need to learn, lieutenant, is proper respect for a commanding officer. You _will_ salute, next time."  
Feywu kept her ears upright. "With all due respect, Admiral, I find it difficult to maintain this farce. I'm not in the Fleet, let alone a lieutenant, and you know it."  
Desumu's eyes narrowed. His ears flattened and his clawtips flashed beneath his coat cuffs, but his voice was calm and reasoned. "This is not a farce, dhus Atkir. I fully expect you to conduct yourself as an officer of the Dusajji Compact Fleet and my acting diplomatic liaison. I will be blunt. You are not my first choice. You would not be my second, or even my third. But you are what I have at hand, and you _will _be up to the task. What happens here will determine the future of the Compact itself, and I will order _Akinama _ to fire on us before I let your pride sabotage our mission. Am I understood?"  
Feywu's spine felt like solid ice. "Yes. Sir."  
"Good." His ears returned upright. "You've read the Council's proposal."  
"Yes, sir."  
"Give me — "  
"Sir, the _Massive's_ contacting us!"   
The Admiral swore softly. "I was hoping to beat them to it. Put them on, Warrant Officer."  
The Tallest filled the screen. Literally.   
"Greetings, Admiral Desumu, from the Irken Empire and the Almighty Tallest," Purple said.   
Desumu nodded. "Greetings, Your Excellencies."  
"It's been two days." Red leaned forward. "What does your Council have to say?"  
"The Compact Council has a proposal for the Irken Empire. Lieutenant dhus Atkir will present it to you, Your Excellencies."  
Brilliant, over-large eyes focused on Feywu. "Lieutenant dhus Atkir," Red repeated finally. "I thought she was a civilian. Pressed into service, Desumu?" His gaze shifted to Mox. "Your pilot as well?"  
"Extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary measures, Your Excellency. Dhus Atkir especially needed the rank if she's to serve as my diplomatic liaison to you."  
The Tallest looked at each other.  
Red rubbed his chin. "We won't have the honor of dealing with you, then, Admiral?"  
"I'm afraid not, Your Excellency. Lieutenant dhus Atkir's knowledge of Sol III far outstrips mine. She'll be much more useful to you than me."  
"I see. Well, then." Red suddenly smiled at her; the expression raised the hair along her spine. "Congratulations, Lieutenant. We look forward to working with you."  
"Thank you, Your Excellency." Praise Kesh she'd taken that acting course as an elective.  
"Now that's all done," Purple interjected, "what about this proposal?"  
Feywu flicked a glance at Desumu, and began.  
"To Their Excellencies, The Almighty Tallest of the Irken Empire —"  
Red made a shooing gesture with his fingers. "Enough with the pleasantries, Lieutenant. Get to the meat of the offer."  
Feywu nodded. "As you wish. The Compact proposes an exchange of materials and services in the spirit of goodwill and mutually satisfactory borders with the Irken Empire."  
"What materials and services are you talking about?" Red asked.  
"Shared mining rights to the outermost planets and a portion of the mineral wealth of Sol III. Artifacts from Sol III's various civilizations. An animal preserve to insure the continued survival of certain species of felines and their natural prey."  
Purple's eyes narrowed. "And what do we get out of this?"  
The words nearly stuck in her throat. "Access to certain Compact technology, most notably communication, medical and starcraft technology.  
The Tallest looked at her.  
"That's it?" Red scowled. "That's all?"  
"Communication technology…would that include technology from the nriu as well as from Dusaj?" Purple asked.  
Feywu mentally cursed him. "Yes, Your Excellency, it does."   
Red blinked, then slowly smiled. "That's all right, then. So all the Compact members are involved, not just the Dusajji?" At Feywu's nod, his smile grew into a grin. "You have a deal, Lieutenant."  
"Except for one thing," Purple cut in, glaring at his co-ruler. "This bit about the Earth artifacts. We have to approve them. All of them."  
"Your Excellency, our interest is in the cultural heritage of the hominids, not their armaments."  
Purple's eyes narrowed. "Either we have final approval, Lieutenant, or there is no agreement. Choose."  
Feywu counted to twenty. "Very well," she said at last. "You have final approval on all Earth civilization artifacts. I will draw up an initial list and relay it to you within twenty-four hours."  
"We're getting a record of this, of course," Red said.  
"Of course, Your Excellency. I can transmit the official document to you momentarily."  
"Good for you. We'll be expecting it, and your list. Ta-ta, Lieutenant!"  
The screen went black.  
"So," Desumu said, breaking the silence. "What do you think?"  
"I think this entire proposal was crafted by an idiot," Feywu said, still staring at the screen. "I think the Council's signing the Compact's death warrant. I think the Irkens will find a way to twist the agreement to their advantage — as if it wasn't already."  
"I won't comment on your first two opinions, dhus Atkir. It's not my place…or yours. But I agree with you on the last. Your debriefing on the Irken Empire starts now."  
  
"Are they really _that_ stupid?"  
Red wiped his eyes, sagging helplessly against the briefing room wall. He looked down at Purple, who was still bent double and starting to hiccup.   
"Can't talk — laughing," Purple gasped.  
"Well, stop," Red said. He thumped his co-Tallest between the shoulder blades. "This proposal of theirs is funny, but… it's not funny."  
Purple canted an eye at him. He hiccupped one last time and carefully straightened, grimacing as his back cracked. "Funny but not funny? Huh?"  
"Oh, it's hilarious." Red grabbed their drinks from the table with a pair of spider legs. "We get their best pickings and give away nothing of value. That's why it's … funny. It doesn't make sense."  
Purple sipped his soda, frowning. At last he said, "They're trying to bribe us."  
"Pfft — duh! But what for?"  
"To stay put," Purple answered. "Remember that line about 'mutually satisfactory borders'? Earth is ours now. I think that makes them…nervous."  
"Huh." Red took a drink. "Think we should?"  
"Oh, sure. For now."  
The Tallest looked at each other and sniggered.  
"Red," Purple said suddenly, "what if we _are_ giving away valuable stuff?"  
"How? With what?"  
Purple gestured. "These artifacts the Compact wants. What are they? What are they for?"  
"What difference does it make? It's all the remnants of an inferior species."  
"The FE-47, Red." Purple folded his arms.  
Red frowned. "Yeah. Good point. They might have a secret weapon out there. And they used …water." He grimaced. "A lot. What if there's something else that could be turned against us?"   
"My point exactly."  
"So, how do we find it?"  
"We ask our own expert."  
Quin was in the sewing room of her cell, working on her seams as instructed. She rose when they entered, her expression wary. Purple noted that while technically recovered from her recent bout of dehydration, she appeared…worn. A waxy pallor to the skin that hadn't been there before, the luster gone from her hair. Dark smudges shadowed her eyes; he could nearly see the bones in her wrists. He recalled what the chief physician in the medical bay had said: that the repeated dehydration was beginning to damage her, possibly beyond repair.  
Perhaps it was time for Red to handle her discipline.  
"Sit down, Veronica." Fear flickered in her eyes. Purple reached out and brushed the curls away from her face reassuringly. Yes, if nothing else her hair had suffered. He felt her shudder, but she obeyed.   
"Tallest Red and I have discussed your duties. We're changing them."  
There was a pause. Then she said, "To what?"  
Her voice was raspy, hoarse; it had been clear and firm two days ago. The dehydration would have to stop, at least for a while.  
"You will still serve us, but only at lunch. Before then, you'll be sewing. Afterward…" Purple hesitated. What to tell her? They had decided on the bare minimum, but how bare was bare?  
Red saved him from appearing indecisive. "You'll be teaching us about Earth culture."  
Quin looked at them. She wasn't frowning — not exactly — but her brows dipped down in puzzlement. "Is there a problem, Quin?" Purple asked.  
"Which culture? And why?"  
"Whichever culture we tell you." Red straightened, hovering closer to her. "Because we said so."  
Their slave wrapped her arms around herself, but she didn't look away from Red. "Earth has … There was a lot of different cultures. I'm only really familiar with my own."  
"Make do," Red said.  
"I'll need more water."  
Purple frowned. "What?"  
"I'll need more water. Talking is thirsty work."  
Purple glanced at Red. Red shrugged.  
"We'll see," Purple said. "No promises. You might begin tomorrow. We haven't decided yet. The guards will escort you to our lounge. Oh, and Quin? Housekeeping will be up with new clothes for you. Make sure you wear them."  
"Yes, my Tallest."  
Purple smiled, and patted her fondly. "That's my good girl."  
"She was bargaining, Purple," Red said once they had left Quin's cell.   
"Yes, she was."  
"You let her win?"  
"I let her think she won."  
"Purple…." Red groaned. "I don't know about this. She was barely malleable before. She's less so now. I can see it, even if you can't."  
"Who said I couldn't?" Purple grinned. "Let's discuss this over curly fries. I have some ideas to bounce off you."  
  
#  
  
The fluorescents worked down here, ironically. Kip switched off his mag-light. No sense wasting batteries.  
His footsteps echoed down the corridor, stopping each time he performed the Standard Operating Procedure and checked each door. He wondered what those rooms had been for; not all of them could have been storage. Training, maybe? Alien autopsies?  
He snorted. Right. An alien corpse was the one thing Altair Base lacked to fulfill a UFO conspirator's dream. Shit, it even had the black helicopters.  
For all the good they did.  
"None of that. Keep on keeping on."   
Keep on keeping on for what?  
Kip ignored the nagging voice in the back of his mind. Doubt was the enemy; he fought it as best he could. Which, if he were perfectly honest with himself, wasn't much. There was only so long he could focus his emotions into anger and a need for revenge like Fred, fall back into routine like Walker and the rest of the squad, or retreat into music and Tylenol IVs like Roth. In his heart of hearts he'd always been a realist. Reality was one simple fact:  
They were going to die here.  
Of cold, of starvation, of contaminated water, of being found out. The choices were all bad. Some, like Sanchez and Mackenzie and DeNouma, had eaten bullets. Walkowski hung herself. But that had been in the early days, when hope and despair both outshone the sun and were capable of blinding rational thought.  
He couldn't remember the last time he felt hope.  
The corridor ended in a T. Kip turned left and continued the door check.  
Altair Base was huge. It warehoused not only the original spacecraft and hangars in which the prototypes had been built, but all the necessary personnel. Nestled in the Iron Mountain range in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, Altair was isolated, unknown and completely off the official and unofficial government computer network. Over the past thirty-five years, sections and departments had been added as needed, growing into a small city.  
_We're dying like the rest, but by inches_. Roth had said that the other night, during dinner out of the blue. Everyone stared at him without speaking. Roth had given them an owl-eyed glance, then gone back to his spaghetti. James had stabbed his own food, swearing violently under his breath. Kip barely managed to shut him up before Walker noticed.  
Roth had been right. Communication with Washington had been lost immediately. Houston and Cape Canaveral tagged along within hours. No satellite contact since the invaders' ships were first sighted. Raiding parties still went out albeit irregularly, foraging for information and supplies. They had better luck with the former. Apparently they weren't the only ones gone to ground; rumors of a resistance force reached them through one of the "mountain men" a recon party encountered. Kip didn't believe it, but he couldn't bring himself to dismiss the idea completely. If it was true, he wished them more success than they'd had.  
Another month, and Prototype 2 would have engaged the enemy along with Prototype 1. Two human-crafted spaceships may not have turned the battle, but they could have inflicted a world of hurt on the invaders.  
But they hadn't had another month, and Dorsett had manned Prototype 1's guns because DeNouma froze at the last minute. Dorsett did her duty, and the secrets of the alien weapons system died with her. Prototype 2 was complete but for the arms, a tiger without teeth.  
If they'd had more time. If DeNouma hadn't lost his nerve. If, if, if.   
"Can't live on ifs," Kip said, and jiggled the knob on the left-hand side's last door.  
It turned.  
Kip's hand dropped to his holster; he unsnapped it and drew his gun. He didn't know when this room had last seen use; probably someone had simply forgotten to lock it. Probably.  
You couldn't live on if, but you could die on probably.  
He eased the door open, leaning away and listening.  
Nothing.  
He sidled up and slowly reached inside, feeling along the wall. Light switches were standardized…. His fingers slid over a knob of plastic, and the fluorescents set in the ceiling flickered on.   
It was a storage room, mainly for old electronics by the looks of it. Kip walked a circuit of the room, examining the aisles of shelving units. Two-way radios, Geiger counters, phones, printers and fax machines, even old calculators. Three units held nothing but spare parts, another two nothing but batteries. He wondered if they were any good. On a table against the far wall was a collection of short-wave radios.  
Kip snorted. Someone's hobby. He rubbed a finger down the dials of the nearest; the dust was ground into the grooves.   
Screeching erupted from the radio.  
"Shit!" He yanked the volume down, grimacing. The screeching became a white noise hum.   
He should turn it off. Likely there wasn't anyone to contact. He reached for the power button. And stopped.  
_That_ wasn't static. Too rhythmic, too regular, it sounded almost like Morse code.  
Kip snorted. Right. He should turn the damn thing off before he dreamed up an interstellar cavalry to save the day.   
He was reaching for the power button when a differing set of signals cut into the near-Morse code. He froze, then sat down in the rickety chair, dusted off the headset and slipped it over his ears.  
The near-Morse dominated again moments later, but its victory was short-lived. The second set overrode it, only to be overrode itself by yet a third, a mechanical pulse.   
For some time, Kip sat there listening. He wasn't an expert in short-wave, but he'd bet his life what he heard wasn't the standard static and echoes. It wasn't any code he knew.   
Any _human_ code.  
Three different sets of signals. Three different creators?   
The invaders were a single species: all the reports and rumors agreed on that. If there were other aliens out there, were they allies or enemies of the invaders?  
Would the answer make a difference?  
Before he could change his mind, he tapped on the mike.  
Short-short-short, long-long-long, short-short-short.  
S.O.S.   
He repeated the mayday twenty times, then pushed away from the table. What he'd done could get him court-martialed. Hell with court-martial, shot and tossed out in the woods. Kip shrugged. A quicker, cleaner end than he could expect from the invaders, most likely.  
He stood, staring at the radio. Leave it, part of him urged. Leave it and keep your mouth shut and hope none of the little green runts come calling.  
And leave behind any possible non-hostile answer.  
Kip tucked the radio under one arm and left, turning off the lights and locking the door. He had a patrol to finish.  
  
  
Mox didn't like nightwatch.  
Too quiet, too still, too much potential for disaster that didn't seem to exist with others around. Years as a pilot still hadn't freed him from what the flight instructor at the Compact Academy called the spooks: seeing things out of the corner of your eye, hearing sounds that hovered just beyond normal range. Mox had done his damnedest to hide his vulnerability from his teachers. If his disregard for authority hadn't expelled him, the spooks would have done the job. Later he'd been even more careful; his business partners were more likely to space him as a liability than simply give nightwatch to someone else. Mox learned to cope.  
Having something to do made coping easier. The Admiral wanted the signal activity of all parties monitored. Between the Irkens' maneuvers and the nriu's transmissions back to Compact territory, Earth-space was noisy.  
Desumu was hoping for some lucky break, a slipup on the Irkens' part. Wishful thinking, to Mox's mind. With the nriu in-system, the Irkens would be even more careful. They were sending out decoy signals; Desumu had pointed them out to him. It felt politic not to say he'd spotted them an hour earlier. He rather liked Desumu.  
The scanner's recorder clicked off numbers. Mox gave them a cursory glance. A nriu transmission; beyond that, "dead" radio signals from Earth. He'd played some for Feywu, trying to lighten her mood. A mistake. She'd snarled and ignored him for the rest of the shift.  
He hadn't thought she'd grown that attached to Earth. It happened to her type of Scholar, he supposed.  
More numbers rolled in. Irken this time, from the _Massive _to a Spittle Runner. Innocuous, so far as anything Irken could be innocuous.  
A different set of numbers scrolled up the screen. Mox frowned. This wasn't any code he knew. He slipped on his headset and converted the strange code to sound. His frown deepened.  
Short-short-short, long-long-long, short-short-short.  
The unfamiliar pattern repeated itself. Mox broadened the scanner's search. The map of the solar system popped up, rapidly shrinking in focus and detail as the signal was traced back to its origin.  
"Sweet Mother Suktara." Mox sank in his chair.  
The signal came from Earth.  
More precisely, it came from an area of Earth the communiqués they'd managed to eavesdrop on before official contact claimed held hominid holdouts to the Irken conquest.  
He didn't know what the code meant. Feywu would, most likely.  
And the Irkens?  
Mox switched back to a system-wide scan. If the Irkens had picked that up as well…. Several tense minutes passed without any response from the Empire to the peculiar code.  
He leaned on his elbows. The signal frequency too was odd. Very low. Too low for the Irkens, maybe.  
He called up the recording of the mysterious Earth signal and compared with the Irken transmissions from the past seventy-two hours. None of the frequencies the Irkens used corresponded with the one used by the Earth-signal.  
Mox rubbed his face. They had orders to alert Desumu to anything out of the ordinary. Feywu had pointed out that nothing in this situation was ordinary. Desumu had ignored her. Still, Mox admired her guts.   
His shift was almost over. He could wait….  
Sighing, Mox got up and headed for the crew quarters. He hoped Desumu was a light sleeper.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter Five

  
  
Housekeeping brought the new clothes the following afternoon. Black jeans, purple shirt, black vest, red Adidas. Quin looked at them spread out on the bed, then went and bathed again. She dressed, did her hair as the note tucked into her new shirt suggested, and sat down to wait.  
She didn't have to wait long; fifteen minutes perhaps. The door rolled open and the guards gestured her out. One of them — the one who had shaken his head at her, she thought — looked her up and down. His right antenna twitched slightly.  
As Purple had said, the guards took her to the Tallest's lounge. Quin felt a moment's panic as the door opened. This was too much like her first encounter with the Irken rulers, and just as uncertain.  
"Hello, Quin." Purple smiled at her as she entered. He waved her to the couch across from the chairs he and Red occupied. "Sit down, sit down."  
Quin sat down.  
"Relax, already," Red told her. "This isn't an interrogation. We just want to ask you some questions."  
"About Earth culture," Quin said.  
Red smiled. "That's right."  
"Why?"  
"Why isn't important, Quin." Purple's tone was slightly scolding. "Just answer."  
Quin shrugged. No sense in pushing for an explanation, and she might twig to their motives on her own. "All right. What do you want to know?"  
"What is the importance of…." Purple picked up his electronic notepad. "…the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States of America?"  
"The — " Quin stared at him. She had expected questions about art, about religion, about anything else but this. "Are you serious?"  
"Very serious, Quin." Red folded his arms, eyes narrowed. "Now. Spill."  
Quin leaned back on the couch. "The Declaration of Independence is just what it says: our declaration of independence from Britain. We were one of its colonies."  
"You were alive back then?" Red asked.  
"No. This happened almost two hundred years before I was born."  
"Then how do you know this?"  
"We're taught it in school. I like history, so I read quite a bit."  
Purple made notes on his pad. He studied her, drumming his claws on the pad's frame. "Your… country, you called them, did you not? Your country broke away from its motherland. Why?"  
"We were being treated unfairly by the Crown. George III, the king, wouldn't listen to our complaints about taxes."  
"He was your king," Red said. He got up from his chair and began to pace. "It was his right to do with you as he pleased."  
Quin shook her head. "No. Long before, the kings of England accepted the Magna Carta, granting their subjects certain rights. Monarchs couldn't do just anything they wanted."  
"In theory." Red smirked.  
Quin bit back a harsh retort. "In theory," she agreed. "But when they did, the consequences were high. Public outrage, scandal, even rebellion."  
"Indeed." Purple looked her up and down. "So you're saying you colonials were unlawfully rebelling against your rightful sovereign."  
"That's not what I'm saying. We tried to have our grievances addressed. Nothing came of it."  
"Rebellion is always unlawful."  
"No, it's not."  
Purple didn't respond directly, but his antennae twitched. "These signers of this Declaration… they were the main troublemakers?" he asked. He ignored her correction of "revolutionaries" and pressed on. "Very bold of them, to pursue this action in secret. Very arrogant."  
"The Declaration was read to the public."  
"As I said. Very arrogant."  
"It wasn't like that," Quin said irritably.  
Red loomed over her. "If you weren't there, how do you know?"  
A rhetorical question, undoubtedly, but Quin decided to answer it anyway. " The events were recorded by the participants, and by observers."  
"And of course they were telling the truth," Red said sarcastically.   
Quin glared at him. _You wouldn't know the truth if it bit you in the ass. _History was complicated, and the victors' stories were the most well-known, if not the whole truth. This wasn't the time or place for complexities. "Yes."   
"Of course, of course," Purple said soothingly. He glanced at Red, who shrugged. "Your country's _bold_ founders created this Constitution. What is it, exactly?"  
"The principles of our government."  
"Your laws, then."  
"Yes. And the details of the branches of government, how they're set up, our rights."  
"Branches of government?" Purple repeated. "Explain."  
"There's three: legislative, executive, and judicial. Legislative writes the laws, executive signs them into law enacting them, and judicial makes sure they're constitutional."  
"Huh." Purple made a face. "Awkward and silly, if you ask me. Power was too spread out."  
"The arrangement was deliberate, so no one branch would dominate the other. "  
Red snorted. "Even you pathetically inferior Earthenoids can't have a government that simple."  
"It wasn't simple!" Quin snapped. "And it worked!"  
"Really." Red fixed her with a stare. "Explain."  
Red had lied. It was an interrogation. The Tallest tag-team grilled her on the American government system. Neither would let her follow a logical order, seizing on a chance word or phrase, then backtracking to an earlier comment. Some of their statements made Quin suspect they knew the answers before she gave them; others convinced her the Tallest knew nothing of the world they had conquered.  
"This part still confuses me." Purple tapped his notepad, lips pursed. "The Bill of Rights. Tell me more about them, these 'rights'."  
"Where do you want me to start?"  
"Start with the first…amendment? What did it amend? Oh. Your constitution. Yes. Begin there."  
"The First Amendment is…was…considered the most important."  
"Which is why it was the first, I'd imagine." Purple smirked. "Continue."  
"It guaranteed us the right of assembly, to associate with whom we wanted. Freedom of religion: the government couldn't create or allow one religion to become the official faith. Religions couldn't be banned from one area of the country simply because others didn't like them. Freedom of speech; the government couldn't censor what people wrote or said, even if it was unpopular. There were limits — you couldn't shout "Fire!" in a crowded theater — but you could criticize the government."  
"You could speak out against your leaders?" Purple asked.  
Quin nodded. "As long as you weren't making death threats, or going into slander or libel. You could advocate changing the government, even overthrowing the government." She paused. "Actually _trying_ to overthrow the government… that was a crime."  
"Military strategies and foreign policy were exempt from this amendment, of course."  
"Not always. The Freedom of Information Act could be used to gain access to files and reports. The government would fight it, and sometimes win, sometimes not."  
"Hold on there." Purple frowned. "You're trying to tell us that national secrets could be exposed for everyone to see, and your leaders could do nothing about it?"  
"Yes."  
Red and Purple exchanged looks.  
"That's ridiculous!" Purple hovered up from his chair, waving his arms. "How in the name of Spork did you people survive!"  
"We just did. The government coped. We coped."   
Red snorted. "Coped with being an affront to the natural order is more like it. That religion thing doesn't make sense, either. Religion is pointless superstition, but if you have it, it should further strengthen the most superior — the rulers. And letting people congregate for any reason?" Red gestured in disgust. "That's just asking for trouble."  
"I agree." Purple turned an openly disapproving gaze on Quin. She managed not to flinch. "No wonder you're a handful, with such an upbringing." He glanced down at his notepad. "The Second Amendment is next." He looked at her expectantly.  
"'A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.'" It was one of the shortest amendments in the Bill of Rights, easily remembered. "In practice, that meant individuals could own guns."  
"You mean your soldiers could own guns," Purple said, sitting down.  
"No. Anyone, so long as they were of a certain age, didn't have a criminal record or wasn't mentally ill."  
"Small, basically worthless sidearms," Red said. "You didn't have lasers, but your projectile weapons are still dangerous."  
"Only fully automatic and military-grade weapons were illegal. Rifles, shotguns, handguns, semi-automatics… all of those were permitted."  
"Then everyone who owned a gun was known to the authorities, to your law enforcement." Red's expression dared her to contradict him. Quin felt a grim satisfaction as she answered.  
"Not really. I don't like guns and I never owned one, but I think you needed to register handguns. I know you had to have a license in some states to carry a concealed weapon, or have it kept in your car. Rifles and shotguns weren't registered…I don't know about the others."  
Red loomed over her. "You're lying."  
"I'm not."  
The Tallest stared down at Quin. She stared back, fighting down the first stirrings of fear. "I never though I'd say this, Purple," he said, "but Zim was right. This planet needed conquering long ago. What did these — creatures — think they were doing?"  
"Living," Quin snapped.  
Red's antennae flared. "Hold your tongue, stinkbeast."  
"Red." Purple rose from his chair. "We ask the questions, Quin. You answer them. We're making the comments. You're not. Let's continue, shall we?"   
As they had earlier, the Tallest hammered her with questions, again jumping from topic to topic. Having finished with the Bill of Rights, they pushed on to the remaining amendments. Red started when Quin began to pace at one point, caught up in the discussion; a glance from Purple kept him seated. Drinks were brought in — sodas for the Tallest, a glass of water for her. Quin nursed it as long as possible.   
Finally the Tallest seemed satisfied, or at least out of questions. Quin finished her water, sitting on the arm of the couch. Purple's antennae twitched; Quin pretended not to see.  
"Interesting," Purple said at last. "Very interesting, how the most powerful nation of your world inhibited itself with such lofty goals. Tell me," he went on smoothly as Quin opened her mouth to respond, "how did you reconcile your country's ideals with its failings?"  
She hadn't expected that question. Perhaps she should have. "I don't know what you mean."  
"I think you do," the Tallest said easily. "They've been apparent throughout our discussion. Why wasn't slavery outlawed from the beginning?"  
"The southern states insisted on it. John Adams tried to put it in the constitution, but the social mores of the time —"  
"So long after your motherland, England, and other … civilized… countries banned it, you had your Civil War. Why did it a civil war nearly a hundred years later to do so? Yet even then your former slaves weren't truly free, were they? Another hundred years passed before that 'emancipation' was truly recognized."  
"Yes, that's correct. But Jim Crow ended in this century."  
"Slavery existed in your century, if not in your country," Red interrupted. "That argument doesn't work."  
"We couldn't always control what other countries did."  
"Yes, you could," Purple said. Through your money, through threats of invasion. Particularly in the last year, isn't that true?"  
"And how well did they work?" Red asked. "How successful were your checks and balances, your laws, your 'liberty and justice for all'?"  
Quin glared at him. "It wasn't perfect, but it was the best system we had. Many of us didn't agree with the administration's policies. We fought to change things."  
"Your best wasn't good enough."  
"You should have tried harder."  
"But even if you had, you were doomed to fail." Red grinned. "Your species fell to the Irken Empire, just as every inferior species will."  
"We're not inferior!"  
"Really?" Purple smiled, shaking his head. "Whose world was conquered? Who's the slave?"  
Quin had never believed in the benevolent, all-knowing "Space Brothers" who would lead mankind to a new age of peace and prosperity that were the subject of so many books and websites. In the back of her mind, however, she had always thought that if they existed, aliens would be … more socially advanced. Better than humans. Maybe those kinder, gentler aliens existed somewhere, but these weren't them. "You keep saying you're superior," Quin said in disgust, folding her arms. "I keep waiting for you to act like it."  
Red slapped her.  
She tumbled sideways off the couch, landing hard on her hip. After a moment's shock, she stood, face stinging.  
Red hovered in front of her, eyes ruby coals. "Take that back, you filthy stinkbeast."  
"No."  
The Tallest slapped her again. Quin staggered, falling to her knees. She rose unsteadily. Her face felt as if it were on fire.  
Red stared down at her, his expression murderous. "Take that back."  
Her voice shook. She would never see a sunrise again. "No."  
This time Red used his fist. The floor spun up to meet her lazily, a jewel-toned mandala; the table waltzed in slow-motion with the Tallest's chairs. Her hip again brushed the floor first, the rest of her flowing after like ripples on a pond. The carpet was soft as Pepper's fur against her skin. Pain-tears welled in her eyes; her ears rang. She thought her jaw was broken.   
She looked past Red to Purple. Purple looked back at her, and sipped his soda.  
Red bent down. "If you're not going to apologize for your insult, little one," Red said gently, "then stay there until I say otherwise."  
Quin stayed there.   
"You may rise," Red said at last. Quin got to her feet with agonizing slowness, using the couch as a support. The pain had spread to the rest of her body. Red tilted her head up, making her wince. "Do not say that ever again. Am I understood?"  
Quin nodded, very slightly.  
"You're insolent, little human. We have to punish you for that. Much as I'd enjoy the handling the chore personally, we've something else in mind." He paused, eyeing her expectantly. "Not curious, Quin? Nothing to say?"  
Quin shook her head, very slightly.  
"Good, good. You're learning!" Red broke into a grin. "Perhaps you're not such a stupid Earth monkey, after all. We'll find out. You're going to be waitressing the next Invader Happy Hour."  
  
  
Red sank lower in his bathtub, eyes nearly closed. The cleansing gel was soothing. He was pleased with this new formula. At the moment, he was pleased with quite a number of things: Organic Sweep Operations and Planetary Configuration cooperation, the lack of contact in the past few days from Zim or Tak, the second shipment of dlors. He was especially pleased with how the "cultural exchange" session with Quin had turned out. Purple had been right about the human's reaction to their mockery and questions, if not to its extent. Anger surged through him at the memory. How _dare _she insult the Irken race — insult _them_ , the Almighty Tallest — in such a way.  
She wouldn't again. Not if she were smart, and Red had to admit she was clever, for an inferior being.  
He also had to admit she had surprised him. To stand up and refuse to obey, twice…that was gutsy. Stupid, yes, but gutsy. There was potential there. Purple had his fun doting and fussing over their little slave like a favorite pet. He was entitled to his own fun with her. Laser target practice, maybe.  
"My Tallest!"  
"What is it?" Red glared at the cleansing chamber door. Whoever was out there had better have an excellent reason for disturbing him, or they were dead. They might be dead, anyway.  
"I beg your forgiveness, my Tallest, but we've received word from Earth. They've found the remains of the FE-47."  
"Excellent. And about time." Red got out of the bathtub and reached for his robe. "Has Tallest Purple been told?"  
"Yes, lord. He wants to meet with you in the briefing room."  
"Very well."  
His co-ruler had the holographic map of Earth ready when Red arrived. "The FE-47 was shot down, all right," Purple said grimly. "Here." He tapped a section of the map; it magnified, replacing the image of the planet. "Along this huge…lake." Purple shuddered.  
"Any indication of what shot it down?" Red asked.  
"Yes. The squad found debris from another ship. Red, you won't believe this. It's dusajji."  
"I knew it." Red bared his teeth in a grin. "I knew they had something to do with it. They're going to pay for this."  
"They'll claim it was these pirates they were chasing."  
Red waved a hand. "Let them. We have the upper hand, and they know it." He didn't believe in Desumu's pirates. The aliens' arrival had been a little too suspicious, a little too conveniently timed.   
"So what do we do with it?"  
Red looked at Purple. "Do with what?"  
"Our upper hand!"  
"Oh. Blow them out of space?"  
"We made an agreement with them, Red."  
"So? We'll break it! We're going to at some point."  
Purple shook his head. "The nriu communication technology? The other stuff? Word got out fast — the viyshoon freighter out there's already sent us a bundle of medical procedures from their homeworld. We attack now, and we lose all that."  
Red scowled. "Okay, okay. But we can't let them get away with it."  
Purple munched thoughtfully on a nacho. "Maybe it was pirates after all. We should at least consider the possibility."  
"All right." Red grabbed a handful of nachos from Purple's plate, ignoring Purple's scowl. "I've considered it. I still don't believe it."  
"Then maybe we should let Desumu figure it out," Purple said.  
"Huh?"  
"Demand the Compact's help in the recovery process of both ships. Insist they determine what a dusajji ship was doing on Earth, and why it attacked one of ours instead of signaling as a non-combatant."   
Red blinked. "You know, I like that idea. Wake up the Admiral?"  
"Wake up his lieutenant, you mean." The briefing room door opened, and a service drone walked in with drinks. Purple took them and waved the drone away. "Intelligence has the report on her and the other one. Our little scholar's civilian, all right, nothing but. The pilot…" Purple handed a drink to Red and took a long pull of his own. "He was in their military training, but got kicked out. Couldn't take orders well. He was a contraband pilot for years until he was caught… apparently did quite a few runs along our territory. Neither's worth trying to get our hands on."  
"I don't know." Red rubbed his chin. An idea was forming in the back of his mind. "Let's go to the bridge and get them on the screen."  
"Your Excellencies?" Feywu blinked. Red hid a grin. The diplomatic liaison wasn't rubbing her eyes and yawning, but she was close.  
"Lieutenant." Red kept his voice harsh — no niceties now. "One of our fighter-escorts was shot down during Earth's pacification. Search teams recently recovered the debris. Mixed in with that debris were the remains of a dusajji ship."  
Feywu stared. "That's impossible, Your Excellency," she replied slowly. "The _Bubastis_ and the _Akinama_ are the only Compact vessels, let alone dusajji vessels, to be in this system in the last year."  
Red narrowed his eyes. "Are you calling me a liar?"  
"No, Your Excellency, of course not. I apologize for giving you that impression. But there could have been a misidentification —"  
"Our search teams know their business, Lieutenant," Purple cut in. "They don't make mistakes. The other ship was definitely one of yours. The question now is what are you going to do about it?"  
"As a representative of the Compact, I tender our sincere apologies — "  
"We don't _want_ apologies," Red snarled. "Your ship attacked ours. We want justice, Lieutenant."  
"Your Excellency," Feywu said. "I feel I must point out the possibility that pirates, not Compact forces, took out your ship."  
Red leaned forward; _this_ is what he had been hoping for. "Prove it."  
"The evidence would need to be examined by experts, Your Excellency. We don't have the necessary equipment here."  
"Not all the debris is microscopic. Some is quite sizable. Pirates often make custom modifications, do they not? If this ship had significant modifications, Lieutenant, we will … take your theory into consideration."  
"We don't expect you to do this," Purple said. "You were a scholar, after all, not an expert in criminal behavior. But your pilot should have the necessary experience."  
The liaison's ears twitched. Red allowed himself a small smirk. "I believe he does," Feywu said. "He can be planetside at your convenience, Your Excellencies."  
"Since it's currently night at the crash site, shall we say, in twelve hours?"  
Feywu nodded. "Warrant Officer dhus Saarvi will be there, Your Excellency."  
Purple smiled. "Thank you, Lieutenant. The coordinates will be relayed to you shortly."   
"And just to show there's no hard feelings, we'd like to invite you to the Invader Happy Hour," Red said.  
Purple gaped at him. "We would?"  
"Yes, we would." Red threw his arms wide, elbowing Purple in the side.   
"I am honored, Your Excellencies, but I must decline," Feywu said.  
"Why?" Red asked. "It's just a Happy Hour. You know, drinks, nachos, relaxing? Not a formal occasion, I'll admit." Red studied his claws. "But perhaps a better venue for celebrating the cooperation and goodwill between us."  
The faces of the felinoid aliens were hard to read. To Red, however, Desumu's flunky radiated doom. "Then of course I'll be happy to attend."  
"Good!" Red beamed. "See you in two days, Lieutenant. Bye!" He shut off the transmission.  
Purple whirled on him as soon as the screen went black. "What in the name of Spork got into you? Inviting her to the Invader Happy Hour? _On the Massive_ ?"  
"She may not have military secrets, but I bet she knows _something_."  
"About what?" Purple demanded.  
"What Desumu's up to. What the Compact's up to. What other threats this backward planet holds. Something. She may not be worth torturing, but a little … pressure… at the right time could get us answers." He drank his soda. "Or at least be fun."  
Purple made a face. "You get to deal with her most of the time then."  
Red shrugged. "Fine by me." He rubbed his chin, struck by a sudden thought. "Purple, there's only the three of them on that ship. Do you think that they…you know? Together?"  
Purple made a gagging noise. "Red, that's disgusting! Maybe you should ask."  
The Tallest looked at each other and laughed.  
  
"You did _what_?" Desumu roared, pounding his fist on the meeting room table.   
"Accepted an invitation to Invader Happy Hour on the _Massive_," Feywu repeated.  
She woke up the Admiral as soon as the Tallest disappeared from the screen, a decision she was beginning to regret, Standard Operating Procedure or no Standard Operating Procedure. Desumu's temper wouldn't have been any worse in the morning, the situation would not have changed, and they all would have gotten more sleep.  
"Lieutenant," the Admiral said slowly, "do you realize what you have gotten yourself into?"  
"A social outing with our … associates, sir. Their idea, not mine. Given the circumstances, I didn't see how I could refuse." Feywu managed to keep her voice calm. She had expected Desumu to be more upset about the supposed attack upon Irken forces by a Dusajji ship rather than the casually tossed-off invitation, unorthodox as it was.   
"You've agreed to a night of endless attempts to force you to lose your temper and cause a scene. We're not on an equal footing with the Irkens, dhus Atkir, and they know it. If they can trick you into breaking the rules of engagement set up by the LTOW Accords, they will. A bit of advice, dhus Atkir. Fear Tallest Red for your body. Fear Tallest Purple for your mind." He scowled. "I am not happy about this."  
Feywu glanced away. She'd done the best she could. It hadn't been good enough. "Admiral," Feywu said bitterly, "if there's anyone less happy about this than me, I'd like to meet her."  
  
#  
  
"Knock, knock! Quin, are you awake?"  
Quin raised her head, blinking. The Tallest had sent her back to her cell not long after lunch with instructions to bathe again and take a nap. "You're going to be up late and on your feet," Red told her. "You'll need it." She remembered lying on her bed and staring up at the ceiling; she hadn't expected to actually fall asleep.  
The bedroom door opened. Purple swept to the side of the bed, followed by a service drone carrying a package wrapped in green tissue paper. The Tallest canted an eye at her, arms akimbo. "Hmph. Not quite, huh?"  
Quin sat up. "I wasn't expecting you. Sorry." The Tallest barged into her sewing room whenever it pleased them. Which fortunately wasn't often. They'd never bothered with her bedroom until now. The invasion of her privacy rankled.   
"Oh, I know. Housekeeping just finished your outfit for tonight, and I thought I'd surprise you with it."  
The thought of a surprise from Purple made her nervous. "You shouldn't have."  
"Well, I did." Purple waved a claw at the foot of the bed. The drone set down the package and scurried from the room. "I know you'll like it. Go ahead. Open it."  
Quin slowly unwrapped her gift. She looked at the contents, then at Purple.   
"You've got to be kidding."  
"I'm not. Now put them on. I won't watch." Purple spun around.  
Quin stared at Purple's back, wishing for something sharp and pointy and very painful. His intrusion into her bedroom was bad enough. She was _not _taking her clothes off in his presence.  
"Quin, I don't hear you undressing. Get busy."  
Quin gritted her teeth. "Yes, my Tallest."  
"It fits," Purple said a few minutes later. "I'm so pleased."  
"I'm glad one of us is," Quin muttered. She glared at her reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the back of her bedroom door. Deep denim blue hip-hugger jeans lived up to their name, low-slung and tight. A bar towel was tucked through a belt loop. A gray midriff top ended just below her breasts, baring more skin than she had in years, and had spelled out in large black letters PROPERTY OF THE MASSIVE.  
"You don't like it?" Purple asked in a hurt voice.  
"No."  
"Well, you should like it. You wore something similar when you worked in that bar." The Tallest smirked. "We said we knew everything about you, remember? Intelligence raided your apartment. Photo albums and scrapbooks are very informative. Now, then." Purple tapped his chin. "Just one little thing left."  
He reached into his pouch and brought out a gold chain with a gold pendant shaped like the Irken armada's logo. He held it out to Quin. The front gave her full name and species. On the back, it read, "If lost or escaped, please return to the Almighty Tallest upon pain of death."  
"You're not leaving the _Massive_," Purple said, taking the 'dog tag' out of her grasp and patting the edge of the bed for her to sit down, "but I liked it. Besides, accidents do happen. Better safe than sorry, yes?" He looped the chain over her head. Quin eyed his long, claw-like fingers as he fussed with the placement of the pendant and made sure the chain lay flat.  
"Don't even think about it," Purple said pleasantly, giving the dog tag a tweak. He brought his face close to hers and bared his teeth in a smile. "I bite back."  
Quin studied her reflection in his solid-colored eyes, small and pale and vulnerable. Her gaze slid away.  
Purple straightened, arms folded across his chest. "Quin, you've been very rude to me since I hovered through the door. Are you still sulking from the other night?"  
Sulking? Quin hugged her knees. She'd been angry and afraid and confused at and felt betrayed for no reason she could logically name. She still did. She wasn't _sulking_.  
Purple sighed heavily. "Quin. Look at me." When she didn't obey he turned her head to face him. "That last comment you made was a grave insult. Anyone else who said such a thing would have been killed immediately. We were lenient because we chose to be; we may not be so lenient again. We've discussed the matter. Tallest Red will oversee your discipline."  
"What?" Purple was playing with her. He had to be.   
The Tallest chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "I know you heard me the first time, Quin. I don't know why you insist on pretending you didn't. If you behave, you won't be punished. I think even a human could understand that. I don't want to see you hurt, but there's not much I can do if you cause trouble." He smoothed her hair, brushing it away from her eyes, then stepped back to examine his handiwork.  
"Quin, put your arms down, please, and stand up. Yes, that's better. Come along — I'll take you to the lounge."  
A squad of guards fell in behind them as they entered the corridor. Purple didn't seem to notice. Quin snuck glances at them. These weren't her guards, or the ones who normally served the Irken rulers. They were her own height, perhaps an inch or two taller, and their uniforms more detailed in black and red. They didn't look at her at all.  
Purple paused outside the lounge's main door. "I'm using our private entrance. I'll see you inside, Quin." He smiled, not entirely kindly, and continued down the hall.   
The lounge door opened. Quin took a deep breath, and went in.  
Tables crowded the floor, more than the lounge usually had. Metal globes flashed colors lights from the ceiling, randomly spotting everything with shades of purple and red. Viewscreens in each corner displayed scenes of ceremonies and battles. A low murmur of voices filled the air. Irkens — more Irkens than Quin had seen in one place — occupied the tables, clustered in front of the long snack counters or the wet bar. Eating, drinking, talking, arguing over some game board. The alien nearest the door glanced up as he took a drink. He sputtered, his antennae flaring, and hissed.  
Silence crashed down like a wave. As one, every Invader present turned and looked at Quin.  
From what Quin could see, none of them were near the height of the Tallest, or even the Tallest's advisors. At this moment, they didn't look threatening — weird, yes, but not threatening. Another, more generous person might even have called them cute.  
"Your attention, please." Purple's voice sang out smooth and clear. The Invaders turned to the Tallest. He was sitting in his usual chair, legs crossed negligently, chin propped in one hand. He sounded amused. "This is my and Tallest Red's slave, Quin. She will be your server tonight."  
The Invaders swiveled back to Quin.   
Quin's mouth went dry. They were all just…_looking_ .. at her. Expectantly. Maliciously.  
"Hey!"a pink-eyed Irken shouted. "Stinkbeast! Gimme a soda!"  
"I want nachos, Earth monkey!" his neighbor added.  
"Dlors, heavy on the frosting! And purple frosting this time! Purple frosting rocks!"  
"Cheesy Grubs, meat-child, and a gin an' tonic!"  
"Patience, patience. She'll get to you all. But not if she stands there like a log." Purple giggled. "Better get moving, Quin."  
More orders and insults followed Quin to the snack bar. She slammed a can of Irken soda and a platter of nachos onto a tray and retraced her steps to the pink-eyed Invader. He grimaced. "That's not the kind I wanted!"  
His buddy flung the nachos back at her. "And these nachos are cold!"  
Something smacked her on the ass. "Hey, human slave, get a move on!"  
Quin ground her teeth, and glared over her shoulder at Purple. The Tallest waved.  
It was going to be a long night.  
  
  
A Spittle Runner took Feywu to the _Massive_.  
Desumu refused to recall Mox to fly the _Bubastis_' own shuttle. He stood over Feywu's shoulder as she carefully worded a reply to the Tallest's message arranging transportation. "Let them know you expect to them to bring you there, since our shuttle is being used to their benefit," the Admiral had said. "Don't ask. The need to mention this is an insult. They know the proper protocol."  
As Desumu predicted, the Tallest played along. In the end Feywu waited in the mainlock for the Bubastis' connection with the Irken ship. Desumu had simply looked at her as the door closed. She didn't blame him. What could he say at this point? Don't foul up again?  
She saw the warning lights flash, felt the shudder as the connectors grabbed hold. The warning lights glowed green. The mainlock opened.   
Feywu walked forward into the Spittle Runner.  
The tiny vessel's pilot swung around to face her. Its antennae twitched. "Greetings from the Irken Empire, filthy alien."  
Feywu gave a cool smile. The antagonism was starting already, and more blatant than expected. Testing her limits, most likely. "Greetings from the Dusajji Compact."  
Nothing else was said as the connectors were withdrawn, and the Spittle Runner veered off for the _Massive_. The flagship's docking bay entrance spiraled open, engulfing the smaller ship. The pilot set them down on the deck. Feywu's spine hair stood on end as the ship's ramp unfolded.  
No return now.  
Another insult — she descended the ramp alone. At its foot, however, stood one of the Almighty Tallest with a squadron of guards. Her claws itched to extend, an instinctive response to a threat. From Desumu's briefing she knew that the Tallest were estimated to be nine feet tall; no official statement of their height existed. Reading that statistic was one thing. Standing within inches of a nine-foot Tallest was another.   
"Ah, Lieutenant dhus Atkir!" Tallest Red smiled widely. "A pleasure to meet you in person at last!"  
Feywu stopped the prescribed distance, and nodded. "The honor is mine, Your Excellency."  
The Irken ruler laughed. "Always so carefully correct, Lieutenant. Protocol's been given its due. Let's be a little less formal now, okay?"  
Feywu nodded again. "As you wish, Almighty Tallest."  
"Just Tallest Red, Lieutenant — can I call you Lieutenant? — I won't even insist on the 'my'." He gestured. "This way. Tallest Purple's waiting for us in the lounge."  
The guards fell in behind them as the Tallest escorted her from the docking bay. Feywu didn't try to memorize the numerous twists and turns of the corridors. She concentrated on ignoring the eye-searing color scheme of the alien ship and following Red's chatter. He seemed in love with the sound of his own voice and rambled from topic to topic: the efficiency of Spittle Runners, the stupidity of someone called Zim, the superiority of lasers to smoke machines. He sounded like a small-change politician.  
But he wasn't. She had to remember that. The mission — her life — depended on it.  
"Here we are!" Red swept to a halt in front of a door, running a claw across the access console. "The back entrance to our lounge, don't want to cause a scene among the Invaders." He waved her in first, grinning.  
The first thing Feywu noticed was the noise. The lounge rang with a cacophony of shouts and laughter; discerning who was speaking, let alone what was being said, was impossible. Her ears flattened instinctively. The second was the smell. Tallest Red's scent, alien though it was, had barely intruded on her awareness. Now the scent of Irken bodies mixed jarringly with the odor of fried foods, floral cleaning agents, and…. Feywu's nose twitched.  
No. Impossible. Not on _this_ ship.  
Tallest Red patted her arm. "Too loud for you, huh?" he asked solicitously. Whether he meant the noise or the smell, she couldn't tell. "Well, there's not much we can do about that. It's the Invaders' Happy Hour, and they get to do what they want. Purple's over there, on the dais. We have a chair for you."  
"Lieutenant!" Purple greeted her warmly as they approached. "The trip over was good?"  
"Yes, thank you." She could hear again; the noise of the Happy Hour dimmed to a faint roar. Her relief must have been obvious because Purple said, "Variable sound-proofing technology. Not completely soundproof, you understand, we want to be accessible to our soldiers. But enough to let us have a nice conversation." He patted the arm of the extra chair. "Please, sit down."  
Feywu sat down between the Tallest. She was supposed to feel intimidated, of course. She refused to be intimidated.  
"So, Lieutenant, what do you think of our capital ship?" Purple asked. A tray dropped form the ceiling with drinks, large platters of nachos, curly fries and other snacks and finger foods. Feywu took the glass offered her. Some type of soda, by the scent. She sipped it cautiously, gathering her thoughts.  
"I've only just arrived, and Tallest Red brought me straight here, so please keep that in mind," Feywu said. "What I have seen is most impressive."  
"And massive." Purple elbowed Red. The Tallest giggled, as if at a private joke.  
Red leaned down to Feywu. "Your Compact doesn't have anything like it, do they?"  
"No," Feywu said.  
The Irken ruler nodded. "Your warships might come close, I suppose. Especially the _Akinama_."   
"It might. I've never been on the _ Akinama_, or any other warship, for that matter."  
"That's right," Purple said. He raised his soda and studied the light filtering through the glass. "You're really just a scholar, aren't you? Admiral Desumu …recruited … you because of your expertise."  
Feywu met the Tallest's gaze. _Here it comes_. "That's my supposition, Your Excellency."  
"I see." Purple steepled his claws. "Such privilege wouldn't be extended to an academic."  
Feywu shrugged. There wasn't a good answer she could give; barring emergencies Compact warships were off-limits to non-military personnel. She wondered what the aliens were getting at. Sly pokes at civilian "inferiority" might have worked with Mox. Not her.  
"Did you enjoy your studies, Lieutenant?"  
Feywu's ear twitched. The Tallest seemed honestly interested, the question free of mockery. _They're jerks, not idiots_. _Fear Tallest Purple for your mind._  
"Very much so." Best to keep her reply as neutral as possible."  
"Enough to pursue a Scholar's rank in two fields simultaneously. To be perfectly honest, Lieutenant, I can't picture Earth being quite that interesting."  
"As Admiral Desumu mentioned we — the dusajji — have a historical connection to the world."  
"Yes, he did." Purple eyed her thoughtfully. "Yet I got the impression your attachment was more personal than professional. You spent quite a lot of time planetside, did you not?"  
"Archaeology and geology are both hands-on studies, if you want to do more than laboratory analysis.  
"True," Purple admitted. "But you offered assistance on human psychology. Seems to me that indicates more intimate contact with the natives than usual."  
"An anthropology primer was a requirement." She shrugged. "Besides, the native psychology is an angle few Scholars in my fields have explored."  
"Ah. Going where no Scholar has gone before?"   
Feywu allowed herself a small grin. Let them think they were putting her at ease. "Something like that, Your Excellency."  
The Irken rolled his eyes. "Tallest Purple, _puh-leese_. This is not a formal occasion."  
Two Invaders wrestled under a table. At least, Feywu hoped they were wrestling. "So I gathered."  
"If your offer still stands, we might take you up on it." Red shoveled a handful of nachos into his mouth, chewing noisily. "Your insight into the stinkbeasts could make deciding what to do with them easier."  
"Excellent point, Red." Purple heaped curly fries on a small serving plate and topped them with a generous portion of ketchup. "We'll need to know what qualities are needed for the animal preserve staff. The sales associates are easy. We've too many candidates for them, in fact. These humans are so docile!"  
It was a good time to become very interested in her soda. Feywu took a long drink with hopes of drowning the urge to dump the stuff over Purple's head.  
"Not all of them, Purple." Red's gaze flicked over the room..  
His co-ruler waved a claw. "You worry too much! She's been no trouble at all." Purple, too, turned and looked out at the crowd of Irkens. "Though some of our Invaders do play a little … rough, I think she's even been having fun."  
Red snorted, still surveying the other aliens with narrowed eyes. "Right."   
Feywu hesitated, then looked where the Tallest's attention seemed to be focused on a knot of Invaders. They blocked her view; she couldn't see what had caught their interest at first. Then a fist suddenly shot into the air above their heads, the Invaders parting like soldiers on inspection, and Feywu's ears flattened in shock.  
Her nose hadn't lied to her earlier.   
A human female stood there, a round tray clutched in one hand like a shield, the other still in a fist but resting on one hip. The Invaders howled with laughter, and she pushed her way through them, stalking over to the food counter. Humiliation and rage wafted off her like perfume.  
"Is there something wrong, Lieutenant?" Red asked.  
"Nothing," Feywu replied. "I'm … merely surprised to see a human here."  
"She's our slave."  
"She's our pet."  
Red glared at Purple, who shrugged and looked away, toying with his robe's collar. "She attacked us," Red continued. "Attacked Tallest Purple, more precisely. We thought slavery a fitting punishment."  
Feywu arched an eyebrow. Attacked the Tallest? When and how had that happened? "You didn't kill her?"  
"We considered it," Purple said. "But we were in the mood for something more creative."  
"I see," Feywu said.   
"Want to up close?" Red asked. He leaned forward, shaking his glass. "Hey! Stinkbeast! When you're done, we need refills over here!"  
Purple laughed. "Good idea, Red. Let's show off our little person's paces." He paused, glancing at Feywu. "That is, if it won't upset our Scholar friend here."  
Feywu inclined her head, shrugging eloquently and hiding her own flare of anger. "If it pleases you, it pleases me. Your are my hosts, and this is your home, after all."  
"Hah!" Red slapped her on the back. "When your oh-so-perfect manners don't annoy the hell out of me, sometimes I think I could actually like you!"   
"You flatter me, Your Excellency."  
Red smiled at her; it was not a pretty sight. "Not really. _Quin_! _Get your sorry human butt over here_ !"  
The human scurried over. Her gray eyes widened in shock the one time she looked at Feywu, before The Tallest commanded her attention. Feywu watched the human load up her tray with the Tallest's discarded glasses and dishes, responding to Red's insults and Purple's concern with the same bland deference. The dusajji had spent a good deal of time around the dominant intelligent species of Sol III disguised as one of them. She knew how they reacted — how they could react— to stress and endangerment to their bodies and to their pride. Some would strike out. Some would give in, broken completely. Some would act cowed and bide their time. This woman's mannerisms, her posture… Whatever outward obedience she displayed, she was not one of Purple's docile humans.  
The human returned with the Tallest's refills, then went off to serve the Invaders again. Purple sighed. "She's such a dear."  
"She's a pain and a nuisance," Red snapped. "She doesn't know her place."  
"She'll learn," Purple said placidly. "You can't deny she keeps things interesting."  
"Interesting." The ruby-eyed Tallest snorted. He swiveled around and stared at Feywu. "Tell me, Lieutenant. Do you think the human's _interesting_?"  
Feywu sipped her refreshed soda. Suddenly the evening didn't seem quite so … odious. Barring some irrevocable false step on her part, she'd have an unusual report to make when she got back to the _Bubastis_, if nothing else. "Actually, Tallest Red," she said thoughtfully. "I do, indeed."  
"Really." Red folded his hands in his lap. "That's nice. So. Do you all screw the Admiral at once, or do you take turns?"  
Feywu choked on her soda.   
"Hey, are you all right?" Red pounded on her back enthusiastically. Too enthusiastically. Her ribs felt bruised. "Can't have our diplomatic liaison keeling over on us!"  
"We're so sorry, Lieutenant," Purple said smoothly. "Was that supposed to be a secret?"  
Feywu gulped in air, rubbing pain-tears from her eyes. "Fraternization between higher and lower-ranking officers is prohibited, Your Excellencies."   
"Oh, okay," Red said. "So when you got promoted you had to stop?"  
Feywu mentally bared her teeth. It was going to be a long night.  
  
  
  
  
Cheese sauce slopped over the edge of the bowl and onto Quin's skin. She yelped and dropped the bowl on the table, yanking the bar towel from her belt. Already stained and soggy, it did little beyond smear the scalding yellow mess even more. Hissing, she snatched up the nearest glass and dumped the contents over her arm.   
"Watch what you're doing, wormbaby — hey, that was mine, filthy! You just better —"  
Quin ignored Invader Skutch's tirade and used his untouched napkins to clean up. The alien soda and pseudo-ice was as cold as the cheese sauce was hot, but it also stained. Purple had already commented on her towel and the spots on her jeans. How he'd respond if she "got herself injured" as he put it, she didn't know and didn't care to speculate, special guest in attendance or not. Whoever — whatever — the alien seated with them on the dais was, she wasn't keeping the Tallest from enjoying themselves at Quin's expense.  
She pitched the wad of soggy napkins into the least overflowing trashcan and went to get a refill for Skutch. A wad of even soggier napkins smacked against her neck. Quin tossed them over her shoulder. An Invader with a huge skinny head stuck out his leg; Quin stepped over it. She couldn't dodge the booted foot that hooked her left knee, however, and went sprawling. Gloved, three-fingered hands grabbed and poked her as she struggled to her feet.  
"Human, bring me another soda." Red's voice cut through the laughter. The hands released her.   
"Faster next time, stinkbeast," the Tallest said, glaring as if she'd dawdled on purpose. "And the coldest can, too." Red waved her away. "You may go."  
"Be thankful you had to serve our Almighty Tallest, dirt-monkey," Skutch snarled as she set down his refill. "Or you'd really know pain!"  
Quin ignored him, and retreated for the lounge's far corner. The evening's torment ran in a pattern. The Invaders would order her around, slowly increasing the amount of pinches, slaps, and trips until one of the Tallest requested something. Then it would stop and she'd be left alone for a while until the cycle started again.   
She collapsed onto a chair, wincing. She'd have a lovely collection of bruises by the time this night was over. Her legs and arms were the favorite targets, but other body parts had their share. Her chest fascinated more than a few of the Invaders, for some reason. _So much for species differences_. She examined her arm; it was a bright, shiny pink and already beginning to blister. Wonderful. On top of the abuse from the Invaders, Red might beat her for being careless.  
"Human! Zim demands snacks. Bring snacks to Zim!"  
Quin looked over her right shoulder. The smallest Irken in the room — the same tiny alien partly responsible for Earth's subjugation — scowled at her. He shook a basket that had held some sort of Irken junk food. He flung the basket at her. It landed on the table, barely missing her nose.  
Quin rose to her feet. She skirted the Invaders' tables, topped off the basket with random handfuls of snacks. Zim followed her every move, right down to when she set his snack basket in front of him.   
"You are an adequate slave, human. You do Zim's conquest of your pathetic stinking world proud."  
As if Zim's praise was a cue, the orders came fast and furious. "Oh, Quin? I need more ketchup. Thanks."  
"Stinkbeast, more suck-monkeys!"  
"We're outta napkins."  
"More rum and sodas."  
"Dlor frosting! Not the dlors, just the frosting!"  
"One of those cupcake thingies, human, one decorated with lasers."  
"Lasers? It's always lasers with you! Quin, _two_ cupcakes with smoke machines, if you please…"  
Perhaps it was the number of requests from the Tallest, but the Invaders kept their hands to themselves. Going from the tables to the food and drink counters was fairly easy. For a short time Quin believed she might get through the rest of the night unscathed. She set down her latest order and eyed the chair in the far corner longingly.  
"I need more soda, Veronica."  
Quin's head snapped around. No one here but the Tallest should know her first name, and no one here should be using it. A female Invader nodded, teeth flashing in a brief smile, purple eyes crinkling at the corners. Quin's stomach knotted. Of course. The other Invader.  
"The vanilla-flavored cola, if you please, " Tak said.  
Quin brought Zim's counterpart her soda. Tak nodded regally in dismissal. Quin looked at her, then headed for her corner.   
"Veronica, I want nachos."  
Quin froze in midstep. Using her name once was an accident. Using it twice was an insult. Using it a third time was calling her out for a fight. Tak was an alien, but she had infiltrated Earth society undetected for years. She had to know what she was doing.  
Quin veered off to the food counter, heaped a plate with nachos and sauce, and brought it to Tak. It wasn't worth it, Quin told herself. It just wasn't worth it. She wasn't a teenager with a chip on her shoulder and something to prove. Answering a calling-out was a game for stupid kids and even more stupid adults. If she didn't play along, Tak would get bored.   
"Veronica," Tak said as Quin unloaded her tray, "Bring me a cupcake."  
Quin made her way to the snack counter and took a cupcake from the rack "Hey, human!" The Invader at the table nearest the snack counter jabbed her in the ribs. "Get a move on, I want a refill!"  
Quin stared down at her tray. She was tired. The cupcake had green icing, with the Irken logo done in black. She was so…tired… and fed up….  
"Veronica!" Tak shouted. "I want my cupcake!"  
Quin picked her way through the crowd to Tak. She set the tray down on the table, picked up the cupcake, and smashed it into Tak's forehead.   
"I'm sorry," Quin said, "but I have to go wait on the real Invaders."  
Screeching, Tak launched herself at Quin.  
Quin flipped Tak with a shoulder roll and sent her flying into the next table. Invaders skittered away as Earth's female conqueror gained her feet, shouting bets back and forth. Tak rounded on Quin, purple eyes narrowed to thin slits. "You_ dare_ to say I'm not an Invader? You attack _me_? You'll pay!"  
Quin shrugged. She wasn't afraid, though she knew she should be. She felt calm, expectant, but curiously detached from any sense of danger or fear. The rage that had consumed her thoughts was crystallized into a single hard point. It left no room for fear.  
Tak's spider legs extended from her pak. She crouched low, then sprang. Quin dodged and kicked out; her foot connected with Tak's side with a satisfying thud. Quin's lips curled in a snarl. Her last attack worthy of the name, most likely. A few aikido moves and street-fighting tricks against military combat training was no contest, but she'd inflict some pain on the bitch that had destroyed her world, oh, yes —  
A spider leg slammed into her ribs. Quin rolled as far as she could, bumping up against the legs of the next table. Tak landed on her, tiny hands gripping her throat. "I'll flay you alive," Tak hissed. "Break every bone —."  
"For telling the truth?" Quin elbowed her attacker between the eyes.  
"Quin! Leave Tak alone!" Red bellowed.  
"Throw mud on them!" someone shouted.  
Quin shoved Tak off her, only to have a spider leg wallop her across the face.  
"Both of you, that's enough! Alexovitch, Zee, separate them!"   
Hands grabbed Quin from behind, dragged her to her feet. She tried to shrug them off; their grip tightened. Tak glowered at her, antennae flattened against her head.   
Red floated up behind Tak. "That was rather entertaining, I'll admit, but _we_ say when the fights start."  
Quin's eyes never left Tak. If the Irkens holding her would loosen their grip, just a little…. "Stay out of this, Roger."   
"What did you say?"  
"Mind your own business." Those antennae were vulnerable. Grabbing them should hurt.  
Red slapped her. "Don't speak to me like that, slave. And don't call me Roger!"  
Quin looked at him.   
"Why not?" she asked. "You could be my old boss. You act just like him." The crystallized rage within her shattered. "You're rude, stupid, arrogant, insensitive, love to hear yourself talk, blame everyone else for everything that goes wrong, can't admit a mistake even though you're so damn incompetent it's a wonder you can wipe your own ass.  
"Your name should be Roger. You're nothing but a Roger-stupid, Roger-ugly, Roger-voiced, Roger-brained …_BUG_ !"  
Her shout echoed in the suddenly silent lounge. Quin grinned widely at Red, chest heaving. He could take away her water, he could beat her, but she had got him. _She had got him_.  
"_You_…" Red literally shook with anger. "You called me…"  
"Quin." Purple floated up beside his co-Tallest and patted his shoulder. His tone was calm, but his eyes were edged with violet flames. "For the second time in a week, you insult us. Some words are not spoken in our presence. That last was the worst of them."   
Quin blinked. "Bug?"  
Purple swept in front of her, straightening to his full height. "Yes."  
Her euphoria evaporated in the face of Purple's displeasure. Quin swallowed. The Purple that had doted on her earlier in the day was gone as if he never existed. "I didn't know. I'm sorry."  
Purple shook his head slowly. "'Sorry' isn't good enough, little one." He glanced at Red, then to the dais. "Lieutenant, if you'll excuse us? We have urgent business to take care of." He gave Quin a gentle push toward the lounge entrance. "Go on, Quin. We'll be right behind you."  
The Tallest flanked Quin as they led her through the _Massive_'s maze of corridors, away from the familiar areas of bridge and briefing room and lounges. Neither spoke. A final turn, and they faced a door flanked by the same type of guards who had escorted Purple to the Happy Hour. The guard on the right nodded, and slid his hand over the access panel. The door rolled open.  
The room beyond was small, the smallest Quin had seen yet. A computer console took up the right-hand wall; a couch was pushed up against the left. In the center was ….  
"Do you know what this is, Quin?" Red asked. "Any ideas?"  
"A shower stall?" It looked like one, only eight feet tall, four feet wide and fully enclosed, made from the same material as the _Massive_ itself.  
Red laughed. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her in front of it. "No, no! It's A World of Pain, little human — as you're going to find out." He glanced at Purple. "Full strength, half an hour."  
"Ten minutes, half-strength."  
"Oh, just feed her juice and cookies, why don't you?"   
"She's human, Red. We don't know how —"  
Red scowled, then shrugged. "Oh, all right. Ten minutes, half-strength." He nodded to the Irken at the computer console. The stall's front side spiraled open.   
Panicking, Quin jumped back, fighting Red's hold. "My Tallest, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry —"  
Red shoved her inside.  
The portal spiraled shut. Tiny bands of material shot from the walls, looped around her wrists, ankles and neck. The wall's opacity disappeared. The Tallest were sitting on the couch. Red waved at her jauntily. Purple looked sad but stern, a master forced to punish a beloved but disobedient pet. He wasn't going to save her. Not this time. Maybe not ever.  
The loops tightened, immobilizing her. A low-pitched whining sound filled the chamber. Quin realized dimly it came from her.   
A chill ran down her spine, not unlike the reaction to squeaky chalk on a chalkboard. After a few moments, the chill increased. Quin shivered, her teeth chattering. Was this it? Was this all? _Please, God, let this be all _—  
The chill blossomed into searing pain. Pain that froze, pain that burned. Quin screamed. Existence narrowed to the agony dancing along every nerve that pushed her to the edge of unconsciousness…but not over.  
Quin screamed.  
Finally, the restraints retracted into the wall; the chamber's portal spiraled open Quin flailed for the opening and stumbled out. After two steps, Quin collapsed, tears streamed down her face uncontrollably. The guards grabbed her under the arms and dragged her upright. Quin sagged between them, her legs felt made of putty. The Tallest watched impassively.  
"Return her to her nest," Red told the guards.  
The world narrowed to the effort of placing one foot in front of the other. She didn't remember the walk to her cell; the next thing she was truly aware of was falling onto the bed, and then, into darkness.  
  
  
#  
  
"It sounds likes you had an eventful evening, dhus Atkir." Desumu leaned back in his chair, watching the younger dusajji pace, regretting the words as soon as he spoke them. His lieutenant had done her best to give her report as professionally as possible, but her personal outrage at the Tallest's behavior had been apparent.  
"If that's how you wish to call it," Feywu said. Desumu sighed, and leaned his arms on the table.  
"You did very well, Lieutenant. Even if you did spray a mouthful of soda when Red asked about our mating habits."  
The attempt at levity fell flat. Feywu shrugged. Desumu sighed again. His optimism that the Happy Hour might prove a treasure-trove of intelligence had popped like a soap bubble. But he'd take what he could get.   
"Tell me about this human again."  
"Female, Caucasian, from the North American landmass. American citizen, most likely; her accent wasn't Canadian. The Tallest said she attacked them … the exact circumstances they didn't say. They enslaved her for her entertainment value." Feywu snorted. "They didn't find her insulting Red very entertaining."  
"I'm sure she supplies with them with all kinds of amusement," Desumu said absently. "Though that alone wouldn't keep them from killing her outright. They've some other use for her."  
Feywu made a choking noise. Desumu shot her a look.   
"Not that kind of use, Lieutenant. By and large, the average Irken finds sexual contact of any sort disgusting." He rubbed his chin. "We'll have to find out what their true interest in her is."  
"Purple said she was their pet." Feywu's expression turned sour. "And 'was' maybe the operative word, by now. The Tallest said she had been sent back to her "nest", as they put it, but…."  
Desumu thought a moment, then shook his head. "They may have killed her, but if they had, they would have made a spectacle of it for their Invaders, particularly if she did insult them as they claimed. No, entertainment by itself is not a viable possibility. Go through their uncoded communications," he said suddenly.   
"All of them?"  
"All of them." Desumu reflected on what they had in their hand, good and bad. The SOS Mox had picked up from an area suspected to be populated by rebels. The Irkens' missing ship, and the debris they claimed came from the dusajji ship that destroyed it — if the Huntmother was kind, Mox would have more information on what was truly going on there within days. They couldn't afford to have the Irkens be right this time. And now, this human slave of the Tallest, alternately punished and pampered, according to Feywu. A human with unheard of access to the Tallest, and superb reason to hate them.  
"Suktara and Kesh have graced me with puzzle pieces, Lieutenant. It's up to me to make them fit."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter Six

The sky looked like snow.  
Mox hunched his shoulders and burrowed into the upturned collar of his jacket, wishing the thing had a hood. He had never been on Earth before and his knowledge of its weather patterns was less than sketchy — Feywu's explanation of what was normal and what might have changed due to the destruction of the invasion had gone over his head. Winter came early and harsh in this part of the world apparently. But if the heavy gray clouds were like those on Dusaj, they'd be ankle deep in the white stuff by nightfall. He didn't find the prospect pleasing.  
From their mutterings, neither did the Irkens. Despite the Tallest's claim, the recovery operation wasn't complete. Mox had barely stepped off the shuttle ramp before he was hauled in front of an Irken in a black and green uniform with a very impressive insignia and informed he was now an honorary member and honored guest of the recovery team. For the last two days he'd been crawling on the ground, bagging shrapnel for analysis. When it came to scut work, he suspected his status as an inferior being outweighed his status as an honored guest.   
The largest debris weres already in the camp's holding bay. He'd seen footage, but not the actual parts. The Irkens weren't going to give him an opportunity to contaminate their evidence. Though how he would contaminate chunks of fuselage nearly ninety feet across Mox couldn't guess.  
Something black and shiny poked up from the sparse vegetation. Mox knelt for a closer look; a ragged square roughly the size of his hand. Inorganic, possibly of human make, possibly not. He picked it up with the tongs provided for this purpose and deposited his find in an evidence bag. The date, time and sector number appeared immediately on the information tag.   
"You found something, cat-beast?"  
The warrant officer's ears twitched. After two days, he still wasn't used to Irken manners or the lack thereof; "cat-beast" was the least offensive of the names he'd been called. The Irkens insulted him as an inferior being as matter-of-factly as they did any of their own kind of lesser status. Mox didn't think of himself as overly sensitive, but… it got annoying.  
He looked up at a Planetary Reconfiguration officer — Kren, Mox thought his name was. "Nothing else in the last two hours, though," Mox said, brushing snow form his knees as he stood. The PR officer flinched, stepping back despite his protective suit .His antennae flared. "Let me see," he snapped, recovering his poise.  
Mox held out the sample bag. The Irken grunted, his left eye half-closed. "Doesn't look quite like the stinkbeasts' primitive work," he announced. "You have completed this area?"  
Mox nodded. The Irken looked at him. "Your work is adequate," he said at last. "I will mention this to the Invader. Take it to the lab." He cast a glance over his shoulder. "And … uh… take that with you." An antenna pointed off to his left. "I think it's hungry."  
"That" was a round, purplish creature with big eyes, a wide smile and tiny antlers; it floated in mid-air like a balloon. As if sensing it was being discussed, the thing bobbed over to them. Its gaze shifted from the PR officer to Mox.  
"Squeak!" *Hello.* A pleasant, almost child-like voice echoed in the dusajji's mind. *Cold, isn't it?*  
Mox blinked several times. Irkens weren't telepathic…but then, this wasn't an Irken. It didn't look like any species he knew.  
"Uh, yeah, it is," Mox said. Curiosity got the better of him. "What are you?"  
"Squeak!" *Minimoose. Nice to meet you.*  
"Um. Likewise." What in Kesh's name was a minimoose? Some Earth beast? He'd have to ask Feywu. "I'm headed for the lab. Want to come with me?"  
"Squeak!" *Sure. I'm hungry. Master probably misses me.*  
The lab bustled with activity. Planetary Reconfiguration and Organic Sweep personnel going about their business, lab-coated Irkens at computer terminals. Mox didn't stop to watch, or even let his gaze linger on anyone in particular. Irkens gave new meaning to "paranoia." Most didn't even look up from their work as they passed, though he caught a glance or two in his direction.   
The minimoose bobbed along at Mox's side. It squeaked loudly as they approached the Invader in charge of overseeing the retrieval operations. He looked up from his computer console's oversized command chair, antennae twitching in irritation.  
"Minimoose! Where have you been? Zim is surrounded by incompetents! Didn't I tell you to keep an eye on — Oh. It's you." The Invader's tirade broke off as he spotted Mox. "Have you finished the pathetically easy task I gave so as not to strain your inferior brain meats?"  
"The recovery operation's done for the day," Mox said carefully. Over the last two days, he had learned the best way to deal with Zim was to ignore the bizarrely convoluted insults and just answer the question … if he could figure out what the question was. He held out the evidence bag. "All I found. I don't know if the other teams had better luck."  
Zim's red eyes slitted thoughtfully. "I see. Very well. Add it to the rest of the debris. You'll begin the holographic reconstruction momentarily."  
"The what?"   
Zim smiled; not a pleasant sight. "Once again, cat beast, you demonstrate why we Irkens are the superior race. You're going to compare the schematics of one of your filthy alien ships to the holographic model of the enemy vessel that shot down the FE-47."  
Mox rubbed his ear. "That's fine. I can do that. But am I supposed to use your … superior Irken equipment?"  
Zim stared at him. "No," he said finally. "No, you are not. And I am too superior to do it for you. GIR! GIR, where are you? I have work for you!"  
A robot popped up from behind the computer console, its mechanical face set in a petulant frown. "Awww….but I was watching the Scary Monkey Show!" It held up a small boxy viewscreen; on it, a mangy ape scratched itself.  
Mox blinked. He had seen a robot like this once before, when his business associates decided to try 'skimming the boundaries of Irken territory for the first time and had to bribe the local official. As it turned out, they had also had to bribe an Invader on shore leave, thanks to the weaponry of the Invader's SIR unit.   
Zim stabbed a button on the viewscreen-box and the image disappeared. "How are you watching that?"   
"Through the TV signal thingies! They're everywhere." The SIR unit giggled. "They tickle."  
Zim waved his arms in the air. "Enough! GIR, run the holographic imager for this cat-beast, then go through your data tanks of filthy human knowledge for their pathetic air defenses to prove it had to be the cat-beasts' doing!"  
"Um… an analysis of the debris should be in there, too," Mox pointed out helpfully.  
Zim screeched. "OF COURSE, you pathetic meat-animals! You annoy me with your statements of the obvious, like underwear that is not clean! The analysis is being done as we speak! Meanwhile, I will devise my next ingenious plan to prove Tak for the traitor she truly is. Minimoose! Come with me!" Zim stalked off, the minimoose floating in his wake.  
The SIR unit's teal eyes turned deep red and he saluted his master's back. Then he turned on his viewscreen again, cheering as the mangy monkey appeared again.  
Mox cleared his throat. "Um. The holographic imager…"  
The SIR heaved a sigh. "Oh-kaaay." He frowned at his viewscreen as the picture suddenly changed to the image of a human surrounded by dozens of Irkens. "They're sending that dumb show to the human camps again."   
Mox's eyes went wide. That "show" looked a lot like how Feywu had described her Happy Hour with the Tallest. "Why?" he asked.  
The SIR unit shrugged. "I dunno." It whooped, frantically punching the computer console's buttons. "Let's make biscuits!"  
Over the next hours, Mox pulled together a composite ship from the debris in between fending off the SIR unit's consumption of chocolate bubble gum, baked goods and rolling on the floor. Despite the robot's erratic behavior, the holographs were finished.  
The dusajji pilot stretched cramped muscles, then turned back to the computer. The ship was a Compact ship, he was certain of that. Whether it was a Dusajji ship was another question. Non-Compact races adapted Compact technology when they could. The dusajji prided themselves on keeping their secrets: a bone of contention with their fellow Compact member as well as outsiders. Why a dusajji ship would be on Sol III, let alone attacking the Irken Empire would make a complicated situation even worse. He grimaced at the console.  
"Um…GIR?"  
The little robot ceased fussing with a rubber animal. "You want a burrito?"  
"No. I need to know if I can get detailed schematics of Compact ships. Dusajji ships in particular."  
Blue-green eyecams blinked. "Oh. Okay!" Dropping his toy, the SIR united pounced in front of the keyboard and began stabbing keys in a random fashion – so far as Mox could tell.  
Apparently not that random. Images of Compact spaceships flowed across the screen, with full schematics for many of them. Mox's ears twitched. He shouldn't be surprised; the Compact had sensitive information about the Empire's fleet. Still…. _Too many_ , whispered a voice in Mox's brain. He ignored it. Politics was the Admiral's job, and Feywu's, not his. He shrugged, and went back to playing "match the schematic."  
Time passed. Mox's hope that the crashed ship was viyshoon or tsaata – Compact members known for being more lenient about whom they traded their technology to whenever possible – died a painful death.  
The ship was dusajji. Modified, like a contraband runner –   
The computer clicked. "Material analysis of recovered debris completed," it said.  
Mox switched screens. Desumu would have his tail for a tie if he didn't follow procedures.   
Chemical formulas marched against the screen in twin rows.   
Mox stared at them.  
"Computer? Repeat display."  
The computer did.  
Mox slumped in his chair.  
"Cat-beast!"   
"Gahh!" Mox spun his chair around. Zim glowered up at him. "Have you reached a conclusion?"   
Mox nodded.  
"_Well_?"  
Mox swallowed. _Careful, careful…_ . "The ship is dusajji –."  
"I knew it! I knew you stinking cat-fur people couldn't be trusted!"  
"— with major modifications that are not standard. Most likely, a contraband runner. Not an official Compact or dusajji vessel at all."  
The Invader stared at him. "I see," Zim said slowly. "I shall make my report to the Tallest."  
"I'll have the diplomatic liaison mention it to them, too," Mox said..  
"Yes… you do that," Zim ground out. "You may wait in the lobby for your shuttle to be cleared for takeoff. GIR! Stop that hideous dancing and obey me!"  
Mox headed for the lobby, not waiting for a guide. The quicker he got back to the Akinama and filled in Desumu, the better.   
Their complicated situation had just been shot into orbit.  
#  
  
"I'm certain you can understand my position, Your Excellencies. The Admiral is eager to fulfill the Council's requests, and I'm eager to make sure the Admiral can tell the Council he has." And get him off my back. At least for the moment. Feywu rested her hands on the conference room table, hands clasped, her gaze fixed on the viewscreen. To smile or not to smile? She allowed one corner of her mouth to quirk upward briefly; a self-deprecating, we're-in-this-together gesture that eased the tension in her jaw somewhat.  
"I do, Lieutenant. Oh, I do." Purple took a sip of his soda. "However, I'm not sure you understand ours.  
"Planetary Reconstruction can't begin until the Organic Sweep is finished, and the Organic Sweep — reassessment, really — can't be finished until the indigenous species is pacified. While progress is being made, that hasn't happened yet." The Tallest looked at her squarely. "The Irken Empire will keep our side of the agreement, Lieutenant. Never doubt that." Another sip of his soda. "You'll just have to wait a little longer, okay?"  
Feywu forced an understanding smile to curve her lips. "Okay, Your Excellency."  
"We do have news about those things you asked for."  
"Oh?"  
"They were destroyed," Red put in cheerily. "Sorry about that!"  
_ I'm sure you are_. Feywu kept her expression neutral. "I see."  
"Sure you do." Red took a small puppet of himself from some pocket of his robe and balanced it on his claws. "Anything else you'd like to ask for?"  
"Well, Your Excellency, yes." Feywu wished she had a glass of water. Unfortunately, eating or drinking — any indication you weren't giving the Almighty Tallest one's complete attention — was viewed as an insult and a breach of etiquette. "The Magna Carta. Mona Lisa. Michaelangelo's _David_."   
Red's puppet was punching the keys on an electronic note pad. "The Blarney Stone. King Tutenkhamen's treasure. The Watergate tapes. The Wailing Wall —" Feywu's mouth snapped shut. The Middle East didn't exist anymore. No Wailing Wall, no Calvary, no ka'aba. "The Terre Cotta army —."  
"The what?" Purple looked both confused and interested.   
"An army made of clay."  
"What good would that do?"  
"To serve the emperor in the afterlife, Your Excellency."  
"Huh. Weird."  
"But as I was saying …. One of the heads from Easter Island. . The last A&W root beer stand. Faberge eggs. A Frank Lloyd Wright house. Marilyn Monroe's dress from _Some_ _Like It_ _Hot._ Elvis' first gold record —"  
"Hold it!" Red threw his claws up, his puppet-self waving its arms frantically. "How much more do you want?"  
"Quite a bit, Your Excellency."  
His red eyes narrowed slightly. "We're busy conquering Earth, Lieutenant. We don't have time to take notes for your treasure hunt."  
"It's not merely a 'treasure hunt', Your Excellency. I haven't even approached the matter of the flora, fauna, and geological specimens requested by various Compact members."  
"You mean there's_ more_? How are we supposed to examine all this?" Purple asked plaintively. "Even if we spare the personnel, that's a lot of stuff!"  
"We can't keep track of all this!" Tallest Red's puppet curled in on itself. "You want these things, you keep track of them."  
"I already have, Your Excellencies. I've been compiling a database of requests as they come in."  
"You have, have you." Red leaned forward in his chair. "Then we want it. To review at our leisure."  
"I'd be more than happy to give it to you. But there's the problem of file transfers and compatibility. The Compact recently upgraded to the nriu's latest hardware _and_ software. I doubt it could integrate with your own system. I'm afraid I'd have to hand the database to you piecemeal."  
"That is not acceptable, Lieutenant. We want the whole database, and we want it_ now_." Red paused. "Or pretty quick. The nriu upgrade will have to be part of our … bargain."  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Purple swiveled around to stare at his co-ruler. "And let them infiltrate the Massive computer system with their spyware?"  
"It won't be in the Massive's system, Purple. We'll have it installed in a service-bot or something. That'll work fine." Red grinned at Feywu. "Won't it, Lieutenant?"  
The fur on her neck ruffled. "It's a splendid solution, Your Excellency."  
"Good," Red said smugly. "I guess we're done here."  
"Not quite," Feywu broke in. "Arrangements need to be made for the nriu to install the database —"  
Royal jaws dropped simultaneously. Purple's soda slipped from his claws and splattered to the ground. "_What_ ?"  
"No, no, no!" Purple's antennae flared back. "Those — bugs — are _not_ coming onto the Massive!"  
"Or setting their inferior clawed feet on our planetary bases." Red's eyes seemed to glow with anger. "No, Lieutenant. You will have to install it."  
"Your Excellency, I don't know anything —"  
The Irken waved a claw dismissively. "The Admiral, then, or your pilot. We'll give you two days to work out the details with the – with _them_. We'll have our service-bot ready by then." His eyes shuttered in the way Feywu believed to indicate deep thought – or at least what passed for deep thought in the Tallest. "I already have one in mind."  
"What about personnel to go through the database itself?"  
"Oh, we'll find someone," Purple said, looking down at where his soda had dropped. Red had ripped open a bag of Irken snacks and was busy gobbling them. "Don't you worry about it."  
Red swallowed and wiped his mouth on his glove. "One last thing, Lieutenant, that this little talk reminded me of. The nriu's transmission snooping —"  
"Scooping."  
"—snooping is bad enough, but they're sending them to … wherever they send them whenever they want! It's gotten so bad they're interfering with some inter-ship communications. The Irken Empire won't stand for it, Lieutenant. Make them stop."  
No one, not even the Compact, could stop the nriu from data-gathering. Negotiate, work around, yes. Stop, no. The Tallest wouldn't hear that, of course. "I apologize on behalf of the Compact, Your Excellency. I'll talk to them ."  
Red nodded once. "Good."  
The transmission screen went blank.  
Feywu slumped in her chair. This…had not been a good meeting. No progress on the Council's requests, and now this business with the nriu. Desumu might know how to approach the nriu; she didn't. Why should she? She'd been chosen as envoy for her knowledge of Earth, after all.   
And no word about the human. Remembering Tallest's cryptic, humorous comments that night about her suffering still churned Feywu's gut with guilt and anger. Powerless to prevent or alleviate the woman's suffering, Feywu had been turned into an accomplice by her presence.   
The liaison closed her eyes. _Detach. Stay distant_. Her field professor's advice. Feywu tried, but hadn't … quite… managed back then.   
And now?  
Self-analysis isn't always good for the soul.  
"I wish I could shove this off on you, Desumu," she muttered as she rose to her feet and left the conference room. "I've got enough on my plate."  
The shuttle-approach light was blinking when she returned to the bridge. "Have a seat, Lieutenant," Desumu said, not looking up from the com. "I'll have your debriefing right after dhus Saarvi."  
Feywu claimed her usual spot at the secondary computer terminal. Minutes later, Mox walked onto the bridge, fur still slightly ruffled from the decontamination procedure and tucking in his uniform. "Admiral," he began without preamble, "it's not good." He shot Feywu a furtive look that made her ears flatten.  
"Something wrong, Mox?"  
"Enough, you two." Desumu gestured Mox to a chair. "Say your piece, Warrant Officer. As short as possible for now. You can fill in the details later."  
"The ship that attacked the Irken fight is dusajji. A modified model. But we didn't build it."  
Desumu's ear twitched, once. "Explain."  
"The computer did a chemical analysis of the debris – there's traces of ceramics, heat-resistant ceramics. We haven't used those in centuries. I can't think of a space-going species that has."  
"I see." Desumu's face was expressionless. " Lieutenant, were the natives of Sol III capable of building a starcraft?"  
"They had shuttles to their manned space station, and unmanned exploration probes."  
"But could they have adapted Compact technology?"  
"It's possible," Feywu said slowly. "There were always rumors and conspiracy theories about the governments hiding alien space craft in out-of-the-way military bases. Admiral, if the humans did shoot down the FE-47, the Empire needs to know."  
"They wouldn't believe us, Lieutenant. There's no sense in telling."   
Feywu's brows dipped in a frown. Their way out of a diplomatic crisis, with hard physical proof, no less — and Desumu was ignoring it? "Admiral, I must object."  
"Your report, Lieutenant."  
"But we can prove the Compact wasn't involved."  
"_Your report_."  
Feywu straightened in her chair, keeping her ears upright by sheer force of will. In clipped, even tones she detailed her meeting with the Tallest, from their unhappiness with the nriu to their insistence on a Mox-installed database. "I had to agree to everything, of course."  
"Mm. Of course. Dhus Saarvi, are you familiar with the nriu database technology?"  
"Um. A little."  
"Good. I'll have the nriu send over their latest software and hardware upgrades. You've got two days, dhus Saarvi. Study hard."  
"Sir," Feywu said, "shouldn't I be talking to the nriu? At least at first? To make it look…official?"  
"I'll handle it, Lieutenant, and the Tallest's concerns. I'm sure you want to rest after your conference. Dismissed." He turned to the console.  
Feywu stared at his back. Equipment requests between the _Akinama_, the nriu and the other ships hovering in-system had been her purview since becoming liaison. Like many top brass, Desumu hated dealing with "piddly work." Why was he breaking procedure now?  
She tried to catch Mox's eye. He wouldn't look at her.  
Feywu pivoted on her heel and left the bridge, Desumu's order to Mox to open a connection to the nriu ringing in her ears.  
Back in her quarters, she lay on her bunk with the lights out, gazing at the shifting constellations of the Dusajji night sky projected on the ceiling. She hadn't wanted her rank or position as diplomatic liaison. She still didn't.   
Didn't mean she wanted to fail.  
Did Desumu want her to?  
But why? There was too much at risk here; they couldn't afford to fail. Why the game-playing? Was she being set up to take a fall?  
No. Ridiculous. Events were too serious, too critical. Desumu wasn't setting her up as a patsy He was just…being an ass. Going for the glory and credit, such as it was. Professional military did it all the time. Or trying to prove he didn't really need her, that she was simply a necessary evil.  
She stared at the tiny constellations for hours, until she finally drifted off to sleep.  
  
#  
  
"This plan of yours, Red – I don't like it." Purple scowled at his co-Tallest over the their shared bowl of novelty nachos. He spun one absently between his claw-like fingers, ignoring the odd red-brown sugar – cinnamon, according to Tak – clinging to his skin.   
"Relax, already." Red turned from the observation deck's display window. Behind him three squads of Spittle Fighters practiced maneuvers. Maneuvers Purple desperately hoped wouldn't be sent out of control by interference from the nriu's transmission collection. Like the last session had. "Everything will be fine."  
"Fine? Red, that SIR unit's dangerously insane."  
Red smirked. "It's not stupid, it's advanced!"  
"Don't throw my words back at me." Purple crushed the cinnamon nacho and brushed away the crumbs. A Housekeeping drone scurried from a corner to clean it up. "How can we control it, let alone make it compatible with the honorable lieutenant's database? It would give away state secrets in exchange for a cupcake!"  
"That's what I've been working on." Red held up his electronic notepad. "I looked up the standard SIR unit hardware and software, and made some changes. We need it, you know – it has all that human data it downloaded awhile back into its databanks. We'll have our own independent fact-checking source. Anyway. I added new stuff, deleted some of the more dangerous functions….:"  
"Did you remove the free will modulator?"  
"Yup. Gone as yesterday's lunch." Red grinned. "All we have to do is send the changes down to Zim!"  
Purple, who had been contemplating dipping a cinnamon nacho into the cheese sauce supplied for the plain ones, stopped in mid-reach. "Zim? We're letting _Zim_ handle this? For the love of Spork, what were you thinking?"  
"I was _thinking_ that all Zim would have to do is watch, and monitor for any tricks on Desumu's part," Red ground out.  
"Oh, yes. Just watch," Purple said sarcastically. "Like he 'just watched' the launch of Operation Impending Doom I?" He suppressed a shudder at the memory of the chaos and destruction the impossibly short Irken had unleashed.  
Red shrugged. "It was either that, or listen to him beg for three hours. It's his SIR unit, Purple. Imagine the fit he'd throw if we gave the job to somebody else. He'd come up with one of his idiotic 'amazing plans' to 'improve' things and end up destroying the base, most likely. In any case, he'll be supervising, Purple, from a good distance away. A tech will do the actual work."  
Purple made a face. "I still don't like it. What if something goes wrong? What if the cat-beasts have a way to…I dunno, reverse engineer our technology somehow?"  
Red opened his mouth to retort, only to be cut off by the communications officer.  
"Incoming transmission from the nriu newspod!"  
The Tallest cringed. "What do they want?" Purple whined.  
"How am I supposed to know?" Red snapped. "Put them through, soldier."  
"Yes, sir!"  
The viewscreen cleared, went black, and then filled with the transmission. Purple steeled himself against flinching; the Tallest didn't flinch at the sight of anything, especially not …  
Red hissed beneath his breath. "They're so disgusting!" he muttered.   
"Uh-huh," Purple murmured back. A few days ago while going through some old reports on Earth Zim had sent to them before the invasion. He'd screamed and leaped halfway up to the ceiling upon coming across what appeared to be a miniature nriu. A hasty confrontation with his slave-pet revealed the miniature nriu was in fact an Earth insect. The nriu resembled nothing so much as four-foot-tall versions of these "preying mantises." Purple had had nightmares for two nights running. He'd punished Quin by making her polish Red's laser collection. Under Red's supervision. At least he'd left no bruises on her face.   
"Greetings, Your Excellencies, from Newspod 761!"  
The Tallest gaped. "Tak?" Red asked, confused. "Is this some kind of trick?"  
"No, Your Excellencies," the nriu replied. "We seek to set you at ease using the speech of a well-known member of your species." It paused, then continued in an all-too-well-known voice. "Perhaps you would prefer the most amazing Zim?"  
"No." Red pulled his antennae down. "Not _Zim_!"  
"Just…use your regular voice." Purple covered his eyes. "Please. That'd be … really neat."  
"As Your Excellencies wish." The nriu spoke now in its standard, musical, female-sounding tones. Purple slumped in relief, and then straightened.  
"Well? What do you want?"  
"We wish to tender out apologies for the trouble our data-gathering and transferring has caused you. As Headmouth of Newspod 761, I feel most distressed in having done so."  
"You do, do you?" Purple folded his arms. "What if we don't want your apology?"  
The nriu blinked its multifaceted eyes. "I offer them regardless. You are free to accept or not, as suits you."  
"Fine, Purple said. "We don't accept."  
Red grabbed his shoulder. "Hang on, Purple. It's not that your apology isn't welcome," he went on, "but —"  
"Yes?" the Headmouth prompted.  
"We need compensation," Purple finished. Typical of their revolting species, to think empty courtesies made up for everything.  
The Headmouth tilted its head – or his, or hers, Purple could never differentiate between genders in the nriu, as they all used that annoying voice . "That we will henceforth only transmit a day's worth of data from 2400 hours to 0100 hours does not apply?"  
"Oh, it helps." Purple smirked. "It's just not enough."  
"What else is required?"  
"More of your …communication … stuff."  
"A favor."  
"A favor?" Red echoed.  
"A favor," Purple repeated firmly. "Of our own choosing, when we need it. No questions asked." He leaned toward the viewscreen, eyes half-lidded. "An no telling anyone else. Especially Desumu."  
The nriu drew up its arm-claws to its chest. "This is most unorthodox," it replied.  
"We don't care," Purple snapped. "That's the only restitution we'll accept. Otherwise we'll have to take…measures."  
"Such actions will jeopardize the spirit of cooperation and understanding the Irken Empire has with Compact regarding Sol III."  
"Oh, we wouldn't necessarily do anything _here_," Red said, idly examining his claws . "The Empire's got a big reach, after all."  
Nriu and Irkens stared at each other.  
"Very well," the Headmouth said after a long moment. Purple bit back a grin; the synthesized voice didn't sound quite so content. "We agree to your terms." It bowed, like water spilling from a bowl – not a natural movement for such a stick-like body. " Good evening, Your Excellencies."  
The viewscreen went black.  
"That was rude," Red said. "_W_ e should have dropped contact first."  
"Let it go, Red. We came out ahead."  
The crimson-eyed Tallest swiveled his chair to face his co-ruler. "We did, huh? With a favor? What good will that do us?"  
"Right now, none. In the future, maybe quite a bit." Purple scooped up a handful of the cinnamon nachos into his mouth, crunching noisily. They weren't so bad, he decided. He swallowed.  
"Consider it a trick up our sleeve. Pass the soda, will you?"  
#  
  
The bridge was oddly quiet without two-thirds of _Bubastis_' crew. No click of keyboards, no audio-responses from the computer, no gentle hum of the coffee maker. No squabbling chatter from Mox, or terse replies from Feywu. Essentially deserted, the ship's center of command felt like a different place altogether.  
Desumu switched on the comm's sub-vocal setting. He'd chosen this time deliberately; all the officers took a turn at night watch. In practice, most of them had been split between his lieutenant and his warrant officer.  
_Making up for lost time_, Desumu thought with some amusement. Dhus Atkir doubtless had her suspicions about his motives. She was welcome to them, as long as she didn't try to force those suspicions into fact.  
He ordered the computer to open the frequency Mox had discovered the call for help; the "SOS" as Feywu called it. Apparently someone on Earth wasn't in the Irken detainment camps. Assuming that someone was involved with the modified dusajji ship was a madman's gamble….but sometimes, that was all you had.  
He sent out the human's SOS and the dusajji hailing message. The go-ahead light on the comm. flashed green; a receiver found. Desumu cued his headset.  
  
"Kip. Kip, wake up! That damn radio's making noise!"  
He was going to bitch-slap whoever was doing this. Kip opened his eyes, half-sitting up. "What the shit?" he mumbled. Fred. Fred had woken him out of a sound sleep at – he glanced at his alarm clock – 0013 hours.   
"The shortwave! We're getting something from it!" Fred sounded – excited? Scared? Maybe both. "Walker wants everyone in the mess, now!"  
Minutes later Kip raced into the mess hall, Fred a half-step behind him. No one seemed to notice as they joined the crowd. Even Walker only flicked a glance in their direction as if checking off a mental roll-call before focusing his attention back on the shortwave.  
It sat enshrined on the middle-most table, where Kip had set it down. No one had believed him at first – no one wanted to believe him, until more of those unknown codes burst forth from the speakers. After that, a watch was kept around the clock by Walker's orders. Other than that, it wasn't discussed, the proverbial elephant in the living room. No one wanted to jinx the desperate, foolhardy hope by talking about it.  
"Set it on loudspeaker," Walker said to Roth, picking up the mike.  
Nothing. Not even static  
"_Salutations from the Dusajji Compact to the defenders of Sol III_."  
No one moved. No one seemed to breathe. The words were English, impeccable and precise, but the voice made the hair on his neck stand up.   
"It's a trick!" someone blurted out. "A trick by the greenies!"  
"_No trick_," said the voice. "T_he Dusajji Compact and Sol III have a common enemy in the Irken Empire_ ."  
"You did nothing to stop them," Walker said.  
"_We did not arrive in time to stop them. We did not expect them to be here at all. They should not have been in your solar system at all. There is a way to drive them from your homeworld. It will not restore your planet or bring back your dead, but you won't be fodder for the Irken Empire_."  
"Why should we believe you?"  
"_What do you have to lose? Can you repel them on your own? Think of your own saying – 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend_.'  
"_If further proof of goodwill is needed, we're willing to assist in the completion of the second ship_." There was a pause, then the not-quite-human voice continued in what sounded like dry humor, "_You_ _did_ _build a second ship, didn't you_?"  
There was panicky laughter at that. "Quiet!" Walker glared over his shoulder.   
"Keep talking," he said, focusing again on the shortwave. "We're listening."  
  
#  
  
The nriu had never been a subject of interest to Mox. Up until the mission to Sol III his contact with them had been limited to ship-to-ship communications and seeing the random nriu on a space station dock, his opinion a vague amusement at their speech patterns and their ever-polite behavior, and the automatic assumption that nriu didn't think like anyone else.  
In the last few hours, his opinion had changed drastically. The nriu didn't think like anyone sane.  
Power sources so miniscule he could cradle four in his palm. Data-retention and transmission-receiving centers half their size, all of it somehow woven into a lacy web of micro-fine optic fibers – at least, Mox thought they were optic fiber – that he lost sight of if he moved wrong or the light from the Irken service-drone shifted. The whole thing reminded him of the neural systems he'd studied at the Academy….  
Mox swallowed, dropping his end of the web. He swore and scrambled after it. "Reattachment necessary," the service-drone informed him.   
"Yeah, I know," Mox muttered. Kesh, why did these realizations strike him at the worst possible times?  
He _was_ installing a neural system – of a sort. Not all his business associates dealt in pharmaceuticals. Illicit tech had been just as popular. Before the Compact Defense Force offered him a career move he couldn't refuse, Mox had heard rumors of something the nriu had cooked up called a chameleon program. In theory, it allowed pre-programmed nanobots to blend in with existing hardware and subvert the existing program, leaving enough of the original code intact to avoid detection.  
Mox hadn't believed the rumors. Tech like that just didn't exist. Couldn't exist.  
But that had been before he had to install one blind….   
"Cat-beast! What is that – that – doily doing there?!"  
Mox glanced up from the body of the SIR unit to the SIR unit's master. Zim stood in what he called an "observer's circle"; the Invader had gone on at great lengths about the Tallest depending on him to oversee the installment of the nriu's database system. Mox privately though the Tallest wanted Zim out of the way, probably for good reason. The Invader wasn't entirely happy about losing his SIR unit, but he wasn't about to pass up a chance to suck up to his leaders.   
"It's not a doily," Mox said. An apt comparison, though. Half the time he felt like he was sewing, not installing hardware. "It's the last connection matrix."   
Zim blinked. "Oh. Okay. Carry on, then." He leaned forward threateningly, careful not to cross the circle's boundaries. "And no tricks! You are under the inscrutable, all-seeing, all-knowing, never-blinking eye of Zim!"  
Mox's ears twitched. As if he could forget.  
he service-drone sent from the Massive to assist him beeped. Mox bent down, trying to focus on the job. "Hold that loop clear," Mox told the service-drone. "Just need to fit this in…"  
"You cleaned up after yourself, cat-person," Zim said, as the service-drone carried away the modified SIR unit. "Very good. The stinkbeasts were always so…messy."  
Mox grunted noncommittally. Zim looked him up and down. "You may go," he said, sounding bored. "Your part in this is appreciated by the Irken Empire, and I'm sure by your own pathetic stink-people as well."   
Mox trudged back to the shuttle, unable to shake the feeling of impending disaster. He tried to tell himself it was a normal reaction to being in the Irken base; enemy territory, essentially, all talk of treaties aside. Once back on the Bubastis, he'd be fine.  
It didn't work.  
After initial contact had been made with the nriu, Desumu had relayed the Tallests' request in the too-small captain's office. Something he hadn't done before or since.  
Where neither Mox nor Feywu could hear.  
Mox suppressed a shudder. What the chameleon's purpose was, he didn't know and didn't want to know.  
He just hoped Desumu knew what he was doing.   
  
#  
  
"Quin,we have something to show you."  
Quin slewed around on her knees, Red's left boot and a polish rag in her hands. The Tallest hovered just inside the conference room door. She started to rise.  
"No, don't stand up," Red said. "That's an appropriate position for a slave."  
"You're not being punished," Purple said soothingly. "It's something to help you in your new duties."  
Quin looked at him blankly. "My new duties?"  
Purple tsked. "Identifying artifacts from your inferior civilization and giving us an analysis, silly!"  
"Oh." She'd all but forgotten about that. The Tallest had set her to relatively easy if boring and pointless tasks since her time in the World of Pain.   
The Tallest moved next to her. "Bring it in," Purple said.   
The door opened. Four guards marched in. Quin realized uneasily they were in the same formation they used to escort her around the Massive : two in front, two in back. But who were they guarding? Another slave?  
Red gestured the guards to one side. "Quin, meet your new assistant, GIR."  
A little robot – it barely reached her knees – stood in the midst of the guards, who had their hands on their lasers. It was mostly white in color with a green panel on its chest, and green shoulder pads and wrist cuffs. A single antenna crowned its bucket-shaped head. Green camera lens-like eyes and mitten-hands gave it a childlike appearance. It looked at the Tallest, then at Quin. It smiled and waved. "Hi!"  
Quin stared.  
She'd seen robots before, now and then, boxy things on wheels that attended to the functions of the spaceship itself. They didn't look anything like this.   
Red poked her in the ribs. "Say hi, Quin."  
"Hi," Quin said.  
The little robot's smile grew wider. "We're going to work together!"  
"We are?"  
"Yes, we told you that already," Purple said, exasperated. "Weren't you paying attention? Honestly, Quin, I think the World of Pain rattled your mind." He frowned, then shook his head. "That's neither here nor there at the moment. GIR, what is your mission?"   
GIR's eyes flashed red and it stood at attention. "Retrieve the Compact requests stored in the Massive's computer to the Quin-slave's terminal, upload the completed commentary for review, signal its readiness to the disgusting cat-beasts, yay!" GIR saluted smartly, its eyes reverting to their normal blue-green color.  
Quin glanced at Purple. The Tallest's mouth turned up in a smile. "Very good." He set his hand on Quin's shoulder, nudging her forward. "We need to return to your nest, Quin."  
Once in the main room of her "nest", Purple ordered the computer to open the secondary terminal. A panel slid back in the left wall, revealing a large monitor and what looked like a standard computer keyboard. Purple peered down at the setup, gesturing Quin over. "Computer, lock security clearance at Zim-level for the Quin-human."  
"Sub-Zim, Purple," Red said.  
"Red, she can't be Sub-Zim. She'll need a spell-checker."  
"Oh, all right."  
"Now, Quin." Purple turned to her. "You'll go over the lists of … artifacts the Dusajji send after GIR gets them off the main computer. We expect a fully detailed explanation, Quin, including what military capability they have. When our discussion is complete, GIR will upload the file again and let the Dusajji know it's on the way." The Tallest paused, eyeing her. "You'll have no access to anything else in the Massive's system, not that you could do anything if you did. Is that clear?"  
Quin nodded.   
"Very good. GIR, connect to the main database just to make sure everything's working."  
The robot's chest swung open; a cable shot out and plugged into a socket on the terminal. Lines of numbers and strange letters Quin couldn't recognize flowed across the screen.   
The Tallest hovered to the door. "We'll leave you to two to get acquainted," Red said. "Any questions?"  
"Who are the Dusajji?" Quin asked.  
"No one you need to worry about," Purple told her.   
Well, she had tried. "What do I do with GIR when it's done?"  
Purple laughed. "You could put him in your closet. He's _staying_ with you, Quin. Have a good evening." He waved and left, Red following.  
"Do you have any bubble gum?" GIR asked hopefully.  
For Quin, the next few hours passed in a quiet surrealism. GIR remained plugged into the terminal, occasionally spouting off what sounded like code, or random comments. Quin sat in her chair, watching. She had linen napkins for the Tallest to hem, and guards had brought her Red's boots to finish polishing, as well as three more pairs. She should go to the sewing room and work there. She knew that.  
She didn't.  
She stayed in her chair in the main room and watched GIR. After finishing Red's boots, she brought her napkins and sewing kit from the sewing room and worked on them while she watched GIR.  
After uncountable days without seeing or talking to anyone, the presence of a physical being in the same room disturbed and fascinated her. She didn't know what she was going to do with the robot. She didn't want it in her bedroom while she slept. Put it in the closet, maybe, like Purple said?  
It didn't act like the other robots, even the one that had suddenly malfunctioned while changing a light fixture in the lounge. They were simply machines, fulfilling their programming. They didn't have personalities. GIR was… different. At one point, GIR sighed heavily, said "I'm boooorrred," and stood on his head.  
_It_, she reminded herself. Robots didn't have genders, and giving GIR one was a bad sign. Whatever the Tallest _said_ they hoped to accomplish by giving her GIR, it wasn't for her good.  
At last the napkins were done. Quin rose, stretching. She felt like she'd stayed up considerably later than usual. Perhaps she had. It was hard to tell, without a clock…. She glanced at the monitor. Small blocky numbers blinked in the lower right-hand side: 00:37.  
"Twelve-thirty-seven," Quin said. "And a clock, a clock –"  
"_To Veronica Quin, human slave of the Tallest, greetings from Admiral Desumu of the Dusajji Compact_."  
Quin froze.  
Not GIR's voice. Not Tallest Red. Not anyone she had heard before. The diction, the pronunciation was perfect, impeccable. But the voice wasn't human. The Tallest sounded more human. It made Quin want to hide under the bed.  
"Who are you? Where are you?" The computer – the voice was coming from the computer. GIR was just standing there, expectantly.  
"_Admiral Desumu of the Dusajji Warship _Akinama_, currently acting captain of the Dusajji science vessel Bubastis, in your solar system, Sol III_."  
"You're a trick." Quin took a shuddering breath. This couldn't be real. "A trap."  
"_Not a trick_," the voice countered, "_and a trap only for the Irken Empire_." There was a pause. "_My time is limited. I will explain as best I can, if you allow me_."  
It had to be a trap. Or it might be a game Red and Purple cooked up. Would she be punished for not playing along? "Go on."  
"_The Dusajji Compact and the Irken Empire are…at odds. Your world has become the current skirmish, as it was intended to be a Dusajji protectorate_ – "  
Quin snorted.  
"_We did not expect to find the Irken Empire here; there was no reason for them to be. Had we known they had Invaders stationed on your world, we would have taken measures to stop the Invasion._ "  
"So now what?" Quin folded her arms. She wasn't convinced this wasn't a setup. She should run into her bedroom, contact the Tallest –  
The Tallest. "Why aren't the guards pounding down the door?  
"_We managed to subvert the SIR unit's programming with our own when it was adapted for its new duties. It's running a continuous loop audio-video loop, made from the last moments before I began to speak with you. Any observers or recording instruments will see and hear you sleeping, and the SIR unit scanning the system_."  
"I see." It didn't quite make sense, but why should that worry her now? Nothing had made sense from the day of the invasion. "When are you nuking the shit out of the Irkens? Why are you contacting me?"  
"_We're not. We can't be that obvious. Rather than take on the Irken Army directly, we want to strike at its flagship: the_ Massive .  
"_We need your help. Get us the _ Massive_'s schematics, and its escort ships' flight patterns. Every ship, no matter how huge or powerful, has its weak point. With this information, you can avenge the destruction of your world_."  
Destroy the _Massive_….but…  
"What about me?"  
"_We have no way to save you_," Desumu said after a moment. "_Out of necessity, this is a suicide mission_ ." Abruptly he hissed a word, something that sounded vaguely obscene. "_ I need an answer. Accept, and I will contact you at this time again periodically, in this manner. Refuse, and the reprogramming we did to the SIR will self-erase. And your world _will_ belong to the Irkens_."  
"You can't ask me that," Quin cried out. "Damn you, it's not fair. It's not fair!"  
Silence.  
Quin buried her face in her hands. It wasn't fair. She wasn't brave. She wasn't heroic. She never had been; she knew that now. She wanted to live. She had been enslaved, humiliated and tortured, and she still wanted to live.  
Rage, sharp and clear and whitehot, overwhelmed her. She hated the Tallest – loathed them – for tearing away that façade of her self-image and destroying it utterly. Nothing she did could repair it, let alone make it a reality. Rebellion was pointless. The Tallest would win, would always win.  
_ It's not that bad_ , whispered a small, craven part of her soul. If she did what she was told, she wasn't hurt anymore. At least, not often. Purple treated her like a pampered pet. She may be completely and utterly alone, but she wasn't in the detainment camps. Did the camps still exist? She thought she'd overheard the Tallest discussing them once, but she couldn't be sure. Did it matter? Her friends were dead, her family was dead, everyone was dead… Or were they? The Irkens wouldn't have killed everyone --   
"Are there others?" she asked in a raspy, broken voice. "Other people still alive?"  
"_Yes_."  
"Prove it," Quin shot back. "Show me."  
The computer screen flickered, then filled with people.  
Humans, not aliens. Hundreds of them, thousands, crowded into a place all-too-familiar for Quin. Force-field barricades. Shoddy rain shelters. Irken guards patrolling on floating discs. Blank faces looking without seeing.  
Quin hugged herself, rocking on her heels. "Where – when –"  
"_At this moment, and on your home continent_. _I need an answer. My time is all but up_."  
Quin took a ragged breath and stared at the ceiling as she gave him her answer – the only answer she could give.  
"Deal."  
  
  



End file.
